


All That Jazz

by magicbubblepipe



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Angst, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Jazz Age, Jazz Musician!Rhett, M/M, Music, Romance, Slow Burn, dancer Link, female impersonator!Link, rhink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 23:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: It was the fifth year of a decade that came to be known as “The Roaring Twenties”. Moving Pictures were the new and exciting export from a little place called Hollywood. Speakeasies dominated major cities with the lure of jazz music and illegal liquor. People—gay, straight, trans, cis, and everything in between—were free to express themselves in a culture that celebrated differences instead of shaming them.America was enjoying unprecedented prosperity. It was a time when anything seemed possible.





	1. Chapter 1

_ September 21st, 1925 _

_ New York, New York _

 

Rhett stared incredulously through the windows of Ingram’s Pharmacy. From where he stood, it looked like any other pharmacy in the city. He cast a sidelong glance at his friends. 

“Is this some kind of prank? Don’t tell me I got all dolled up to buy toothpaste,” he said as Phil stepped around him and opened the door. The bell hanging above chimed merrily as they crossed the threshold.

Rhett looked around in bemusement at the shelves, following his friends to the counter at the back of the store. He saw bandages, salves, tonics, cough lozenges, headache powders, and nothing at all resembling booze. The pharmacist watched them approach over the frames of his half-moon glasses. He looked to be in his forties, grey just touching his temples, laugh lines creasing the corners of his eyes. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted, creasing the newspaper in his hands and setting it aside. “What can I do for you?”

Phil leaned forward over the counter, a cocksure grin spreading across his features. “Yeah, doc. I’ve got a bad cough.” 

The man appraised them, squinting at Phil first, then Gray, and last Rhett. He braced his palms on the counter, scrutinizing Phil’s confident stance. “What’s the password?” 

Rhett blinked, looking in surprise from one man to the other. He was just about to ask what the big idea was, but something told him to keep his mouth shut. 

“Gin Rickey,” Phil replied. 

The ‘Pharmacist’ flashed a brilliant smile. “Correct.” He let himself through the swinging partition in the counter that separated them. “Follow me, boys.” 

Rhett shook his head in bewilderment, but trailed along after his friends as the man led them down a short hall to a door marked ‘Backroom’. The man pulled a ring of keys off of his belt and used a small gold one to open the door. 

“Watch your step,” he warned. Through the darkness beyond the door, Rhett could see stairs descending to an unknown depth. He and his friends followed their leader down, Rhett keeping his hands out to feel the walls on either side. As they went deeper underground, Rhett could make out the faint sound of music and voices from beneath them. When he reached the last step, he collided with someone’s back and realized the pharmacist had brought them to a stop. 

“Watch it, McLaughlin,” Gray said, jostling him back. 

The music was louder now and Rhett’s eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. The landing where they stood was tiny and ended abruptly at a large metal door. Another jingling of the man’s keys and the heavy door  swung open. 

Rhett felt as if someone had torn a blindfold from his eyes, flinched in the sudden light and the cacophony of noise, blinking the spots from his vision. The room before him began to take shape. 

Red, was what he noticed first. Red velvet chairs, red satin tablecloths embroidered with gold. Gas lamps illuminated the space and they made the hammered tin ceiling glow like precious metal. People crowded around a long mahogany bar that took up one side of the space. Behind it, dozens of glass bottles of illegal alcohol glittered temptingly, replicated by the mirrors that made up the back wall. 

A dark haired bartender worked furiously, pouring and mixing drinks, a towel slung over his shoulder. A young bar back attended him, collecting empty glasses in a bin and supplying new ones in a line along the counter. They worked like an assembly line, seeming unbothered by the demands of the yelling patrons shoving their way to the bar. 

At the back of the room, right in the middle of it all, was a stage. The thick crimson curtains were drawn closed, but the electric bulbs that dotted its perimeter glowed brightly. Before the curtain was a jazz quartet, playing a nice bouncy number, but one Rhett could practically play in his sleep. The tables just in front of the wide proscenium were already full of people chattering excitedly. 

The air buzzed with anticipation. Rhett’s mind was racing with heady fantasies of performing in a place as nice as this. Phil, Gray, and himself. Their absent friends, Abe and Joseph — who were on stage that night at a drag ball in Harlem — would be chomping at the bit to show all these white folks what they could do. 

“C’mon, Rhett.” Gray pulled on his jacket sleeve, tipping his head toward a booth near the stage. 

Rhett followed him, edging his large frame carefully through the throng of people until they reached their destination. The rich leather of the seats creaked under their weight as they settled down in front of their table. A tiny chandelier hung from the ceiling in their partially obscured nook, casting curious shadows over their faces. Dark curtains were drawn back on either side of the booth to allow a direct view of the stage. Rhett took off his bowler and set it beside him on the bench. 

Craning his neck, he could see Phil wedging his way back through the crowd at the bar with an armful of drinks. He caught Rhett’s eye and shot him an eyebrow-wagging grin as he made his way over to them. 

“Alcohol, as promised,” Phil announced, passing out tall glasses of beer to each of them before taking his seat beside Gray. 

Rhett gratefully took a long drink, the foam catching on his beard and making his friends laugh. He was used to this kind of teasing by now. 

“When are you going to shave that thing off?” Phil asked, gesturing to his own smooth, clefted chin. “It’s so out of fashion.”

“Not all of us are a slave to fashion,  _ Philippe _ ,” Rhett retorted with a pointed lift of his brows. 

Phil was always fastidious in his appearance, wanting to stay ahead of the curve. He kept his dark brown hair slicked down, parted in the middle and his thin mustache perfectly outlined his upper lip. And Grayson kept his own ginger locks in a careful finger-wave over closely cropped sides. 

Rhett was the outlier, with his loose dirty blond curls and thick beard. Tonight, he had attempted to tame his mane with Brilliantine, but it only served to reinforce its natural shape with added shine. His beard, however, was off limits. His only concession was to wax the ends of his mustache, twisting them up into fashionable flips for special occasions, like tonight. He brought his fingers to the waxed curls, making sure the beer hadn’t ruined their shape. 

The rest of the bar’s patrons began to take their seats, clearing out the back half of the room which Rhett could now see was a highly polished dance floor. The quartet on stage drew their song to an abrupt end and dispersed; the absence of music caused the crowd to hush. The moment of silence stretched out so that Rhett could feel the tension in the room like a vibrating string. Then the curtains began to lift, the foot lights flickering on to reveal a Big Band group, poised and ready to begin.

Rhett’s eyes widened, taking in the gleaming brass of the trumpets and saxophones; the sleek black surface of a baby grand. A low, thrumming bassline started to bloom, chased by the shivering hiss of carefully played cymbals. A guitar joined the mounting sound, followed by a pair of violins. Goosebumps appeared on Rhett’s arms, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The music traveled through the floor, up through his feet, humming in his veins.

He was so preoccupied watching each instrument group join in the swell, that the spotlight came as a surprise. Rhett blinked, following the beam of light to the left edge of the curtain. From his angle, he could only see a leg  — a long, stocking-clad leg in black t-strap heels, bent provocatively at the knee as if beckoning a motorist for a ride. 

Rhett swallowed, transfixed as the woman herself slinked onto the stage. She was tall, her slender frame draped in a glittering black dress, its heavy hanging beads swishing above her knees. Her raven hair made her moon-pale face seem to glow. Even from a distance, Rhett could make out brilliant blue eyes shining through her smoky makeup. He watched, breathless, as she took center stage with a swagger in her step. Her long fingers twined around the stand of the microphone and her warm, dusky voice began to sing. 

Rhett twisted the tablecloth in his grip, his other hand clutching at the sweating glass of his half-drunk beer. She was beautiful. He followed the curves of her red, heart-shaped mouth as she crooned romance into the air. The band followed, providing a throbbing heartbeat beneath her words, swelling with the sway of her hips. 

The crowd was enthralled, cheering every time she flashed her pearly smile. Her movements were sensual and slow, slim hands sliding up her thighs, raking the dress high enough to expose a peek of her garter straps. Rhett’s heart was pounding, his stomach fizzling with arousal. He could feel Philippe’s stare boring into the side of his face. He tore his gaze away from the woman to shoot his friend a pointed look. 

“What?” he asked, his face getting warmer by the second. 

“You look completely gone,” Phil replied with a teasing smile. 

Rhett’s attention drifted back to the performer as if she were magnetic. “She’s incredible.”

Phil let out a short laugh, sharing a furtive look with Gray. “She is something, alright.” 

Rhett’s eyes trailed over her form, unable to settle on any one place. “Her voice is heaven,” he blurted, “and would you just look at those gams?” 

Phil opened his mouth, gearing up to speak. Gray elbowed him and shook his head. Phil spoke anyway. “What else do you like about her?” 

Rhett licked his lips, his gaze sliding up the length of her graceful neck. “What don’t I like?” 

Before Phil could get a word in, the music reached a dramatic change. The trumpets jumped in with blaring, brassy notes, saxophones crying out, rising in pitch as the stage lit up. Girls began to file out from either side of the stage, all wearing white replicas of the singer’s dress. They formed a chorus line behind her and followed her as she began to dance. All quick motions, twisting hips and flirty kicks. 

Rhett’s mouth hung open as two tuxedo clad gentlemen swirled onto the stage. They passed the singer between them in dramatic twirls that sent her dress flying up around her waist, exposing her pale thighs and the lacy black of her undergarments. Rhett fidgeted in his seat, trying to discreetly adjust the growing interest in his trousers. His heart raced as he watched them dance a risque version of the Charleston, with lifts that had the girl’s legs spread wide around the men’s hips. 

The music grew to a swelling climax as the singer twirled from their arms until she was right before the footlights, to the delight of the screaming crowd. With a final flourish, she raised her arms, the men coming up behind her. Each took a side and grabbed her dress. With a snap, they tore it free and Rhett’s heart skipped a beat. Standing there in stockings and heels was a slim, bare-chested man. 

The crowd leapt to their feet and began to clap. Red roses showered the stage and the star blew kisses to his adoring fans. He gathered up a small bouquet against his sweat-damp chest, waving as if he were the queen of England. 

The tuxedoed men took their bows beside him, the girls in white joining hands and bowing together. The musicians stood and joined in the clapping… and Rhett was absolutely frozen. 

Phil lasted nearly a full minute before he burst into laughter, clapping his hands in delight. Gray tried to hide his own smile behind the rim of his glass. Rhett slowly tore his gaze away from the half naked man on stage and looked at his friends in bewilderment. 

“I never figured you for a pansy!” Phil chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. 

“I — I’m…” Rhett pulled at his collar, letting some of the heat escape, “I had no idea she was… well, a he… ”

“Neither did I, the first night I came here,” Grayson offered. 

Rhett followed the performer’s swaying backside as he exited the stage, making way for a petite, blonde woman in a dress of peacock feathers. She stepped up to the microphone to the cheers of the audience. She tossed them a flirty wink before she motioned for her accompaniment to begin. The pianist played the opening bars to  _ Bye Bye, Blackbird _ and the girl began to sing in a sweet soprano. The familiar song didn’t hold Rhett’s interest for long and he found his mind drifting back to black hair and crimson lips. 

“What’s his name?” he asked, cringing inwardly for the mockery that was sure to come.

“They call him Miss Charlie,” Philippe replied, “at least on stage. No idea what his actual name is.”

“He’s getting very popular. Sold out shows every night,” Gray added. 

Rhett could see why. He’d come across a few other female impersonators since his arrival in New York, but none quite so lovely nor talented as Miss Charlie. He was suddenly in need of a stronger drink. He drained the rest of his beer and stood. 

“You gents want anything from the bar?” he asked. 

“Two fingers of whiskey, thanks,” Gray said, tipping back the last of his drink. 

“I’ll have whatever you’re having. To drink, that is. Miss Charlie is all yours.” Phil’s eyebrows danced mischievously. 

“Oh, stuff it.” Rhett waved him off, feeling a peculiar flutter of nerves at the thought. 

He made his way to the bar, sidestepping the couples on the dancefloor. There were only a few other patrons at the counter and Rhett easily found a space to fit himself into. 

The bartender topped off a man’s scotch before sliding over to Rhett. His dark hair was starting to fall out of shape, loose pieces slipping over his thick black brows. 

“What can I get ya?” he asked in a rolling Irish brogue. 

“Two fingers of whiskey and a couple dry martinis. Extra olives, please.”

The man nodded, deftly going to work to deliver the drinks with practiced ease. Rhett finished his first martini before he left the bar and had to order another to carry back with him to their table. He picked his way through the battleground of a dancefloor, holding his drinks aloft to avoid the flailing limbs of dancing couples. 

Rhett returned to find his friends in an animated argument over cufflinks. He sat and passed Gray his whiskey. He took it absently though he was still jabbing his finger at Phil. 

“I’m not saying that you stole them,” he said, though his clipped tone suggested otherwise, “I’m only saying that I used to have a pair of gold cufflinks and now I don’t.”

Phil scoffed, snatching up his martini and taking an annoyingly long sip. He made a show of daintily dabbing off his mustache before offering a reply. 

“I remember those cufflinks, pal, and they weren’t half as nice as these.” He puffed a hot breath on one already gleaming gold stud and polished it on the lapel of his jacket. 

Gray shook his head and threw back half his whiskey in one gulp. Rhett nursed his second martini, feeling a slow buzz building behind his eyes. It’d been awhile since he’d been able to indulge. 

“Why either of you would waste money on shiny baubles is beyond me,” Rhett chuckled. “You’re like a pair of magpies.” 

“Says the man with the flashiest banjo that money can buy,” Phil quipped. 

“Your clarinet is worth twice as much as my banjo and you know it.”

Gray thumped his glass back down with a groan. “Can’t we just agree that you’re both ridiculous and move on?” 

Rhett tried to hold his grouchy expression but ended up snorting and ruining the effect. Phil laughed and plucked an olive from his glass. He tossed it at Rhett, who snatched it out of the air and popped it into his mouth. 

The blonde singer had been replaced by a pianist who was banging out a lively ragtime beat. Rhett watched the heaving mass of people dancing; men with women, women with women, men with men. Rhett found his thoughts drifting back to him—Miss Charlie. The thick cigarette smoke hanging in the air seemed to be filling up his lungs. He felt sweat starting to gather under his mustache and at the dip of his spine. 

This was nothing to trouble himself over. He had only found himself attracted to Miss Charlie when he thought he was a woman. He was sure that the desire he felt would ebb away without the costume, certain he wouldn’t keep picturing those sinful, swiveling hips and tight waist if they were covered in a suit. 

He went to take another drink from his glass only to find it finished off. He felt sluggish and tingly with the beginnings of drunkenness. The cloying heat of the bar was starting to get under his skin and make him itch for a breeze, and the nervousness simmering in his gut had him craving a smoke. 

“I need some air,” Rhett announced. He slid out of the booth and stretched his sore back. 

“There’s a door to the alley by the men’s room,” Phil told him. He pointed to the other side of the room where Rhett could see a dimly lit hallway to the left of the stage. 

Rhett grabbed his hat from the seat and carried it with him as he navigated his way through the sea of tables before the stage. The hallway was crowded with a line of women waiting to get into the powder room. The ladies’ room door stood ajar, the scent of a dozen different perfumes permeating the air and congesting Rhett’s airways. 

He gently made his way through the gaggle of chattering women, easily seeing over them to the end of the hall where a large metal door waited for him. Patting his pockets for his cigarette case, he reached the door and threw his shoulder against its weight, pushing it open. The reinforced iron swung open with a metallic cry and admitted Rhett into the cool September night. 

A dark figure standing in the alley turned to face the noise, stealing the air from Rhett’s lungs before he could make a sound. The warm glow of a streetlamp dimly illuminated the space, highlighting the familiar features that had been haunting him. Miss Charlie was even more radiant up close. 

He’d pulled on a loose button-up shirt over his lingerie but he still wore his stockings and heels. He leaned against the opposite wall, facing Rhett, his cool entrancing eyes gleaming with a look of appraisal. In his hand he held a cigarette tipped with the red of his lipstick. He brought it to his mouth and took a long drag, cheeks hollowing obscenely. 

Rhett licked his dry lips, his heart pounding a frantic tempo against his ribs. 

Miss Charlie let out his lungful of smoke in a thick stream, tipping his head back and exposing the pale length of his throat. When he looked at Rhett again, he flashed him a sharp little grin and gestured toward the cigarette case clutched in Rhett’s white-knuckled grip. 

“Need a light, daddy-o?” 


	2. Chapter 2

_ Macon, Georgia _

_ 1910 _

 

The Grand Opera House on Mulberry Street was the most spectacular place Rhett had ever seen. The newly renovated building stretched seven stories into the evening sky, an impressive shadow against the setting sun. The electric lights surrounding the marquee dazzled his young eyes and he pulled excitedly on his mother’s hand. 

She smiled and squeezed the small hand in hers. “Patience, darling,” she chided. “We must wait in line like everyone else.”

Rhett’s father stood with his wife’s arm laced through his own. He wore a rare smile, making him look younger than his years. Rhett’s older brother, Cole, stood beside him, trying his best to look bored, though anyone could see the excitement dancing behind his eyes. 

Slowly, they began to file into the theatre. A smartly dressed young man took their tickets at the door and handed each of them a program, even Rhett. He studied the black script on the cover, though he could only make out a few of the easier words. His mother’s gloved hand pulled him along and he trotted beside her as they were led to their seats. 

The inside of the opera house was even more magnificent than Rhett had imagined. He stared in wonder around the huge space. Hundreds of men and women, decked out in their finest clothing, were already filling the green velvet seats. Rhett tipped his head back to gaze at the high ceiling, painted with gauzy clouds and frolicking angels to mimic the heavens. Everything else was gold; opulence the likes of which he’d never seen.        

Chandeliers, dripping with crystals, hung in every box, casting their pretty reflections onto everything around them. The tall pillars which supported the balconies were decorated with ornate filigree which matched the mouldings on the walls. The whole place smelled faintly of fresh paint under the lingering sweetness of floral perfume. 

Rhett and his family took their seats in the mezzanine, and his attention was immediately drawn to the sounds emanating from the orchestral pit. He begged for his mother’s golden opera glasses to watch the musicians tune their instruments. They had only a piano at home and he had never seen so many lovely contraptions in his life. The sound they made rose and fell like the breath of a sleeping dragon, under the anxious mutterings of the audience. 

When the time finally came for the curtains to rise, Rhett was practically vibrating with excitement. The music truly began, pouring outward and rising to an immense volume. Rhett was breathless as he took in the gorgeous world that existed within the confines of the stage, brought to life by the swelling instrumentals and the painstakingly painted backdrops. 

When the overture drew to a close, the players took the stage in their magnificent costumes. In the center of it all rose a crescent moon with a woman standing within. Her billowing black robes glittered with jewels so that she appeared to be cloaked in the night sky itself. Her powerful voice burst from her chest, carried upward by the music. 

Though Rhett didn’t understand the language she spoke, he could feel the meaning of her song. The tone of her voice and the tempo of the melody evoked a depth of feeling he’d never known. There, in that opera house, a love was blooming inside his young heart; one that would dictate the course of his life. That night, Rhett fell in love with music. 

_ Macon, Georgia _

_ 1912 _

  
  


Rhett tiptoed down the stairs of his cellar until he could see his father, hunched over his worktable. Rhett sat down carefully on the steps so as not to make a sound and watched him for a while. Rachmaninoff played quietly from the little phonograph in the corner, amid the noise of his father’s metallic tinkering.

Half of the space in the cellar was dedicated to his mother’s canned goods and homemade preserves. The other was packed with scraps of metal and wood, half finished creations, and rolls of butcher paper for sketching. Numerous clocks of all sizes adorned the walls, all ticking away together, perfectly in sync. The shelves his father had built were filled with tiny bejeweled music boxes.

A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a yellow glow over his father's bent head and shoulders. The dust motes floating in the air were making Rhett's nose twitch, but he scrunched up his face to prevent a sneeze; he knew his father didn't like to be disturbed while he was working. The music came to a stop and Rhett held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. But the tremendous sneeze couldn't be stopped, and his cover was immediately blown.

His father, standing to change the phonograph’s spool, whipped around to stare at him. Rhett flushed up to the roots of his hair and was about to beat a hasty retreat, but his father's outstretched hand stayed him.

“Come over here,” he said. There was nothing mean in his tone, but Rhett was still trepidatious as he made his way down the rest of the stairs and to his father's side.

“It's alright,” his father soothed, placing a broad hand on his son's shoulder. “Want me to show you how I make them?”

Rhett lit up, his big eyes glowing in excitement. “Yes, sir!”

His father smiled. “Pull up that stool and have a seat.”

Rhett did as he was told and joined him back at the workbench, his feet dangling above the floor. He gazed in wonder at the mess of tiny gears, screws, and tools strewn across the surface of the table. His father, taking his seat, resumed his work. His large hands worked carefully with the miniature implements, showing Rhett each little cog before it was laid.

Rhett watched patiently for a while before he asked, “What makes the music come out?”

His father picked up a tiny metal spool and held it up to the light of his oil lamp so Rhett could see the raised bumps on its surface.

“These bumps make the music,” he explained. “They're laid in a pattern, see? As the spool turns, each bump is struck by a thin piece of metal and it makes a sound.”

He picked up a finished crankshaft music box that he could hold in the palm of his hand. “These are simple,” he said. “Turning the crank turns the spool. See that these metal teeth are different sizes? Each tooth makes a different tone.”

He passed the box to Rhett, who turned the little crank slowly, watching as the spool rotated. Its bumps caught on the metal teeth as quickly or slowly as he pleased. High, clear notes rang out into the air and he recognized the tune to be  _ Amazing Grace _ .

Rhett was struck with a sudden revelation. “Does the phonograph work the same way?”

“Somewhat,” his father replied. “It works with a needle instead of metal teeth. The sound is recorded into foil, wrapped around a cylinder. The needle sits in the grooves and plays the sound back to us.”

Rhett looked around with new interest at the finished music boxes on the shelves. Most of them opened on hinges and had moving parts. Some of them had little figures that spun around as if dancing to the music. Knowing their inner workings made them somehow more intriguing than before.

“Can you teach me?” he asked, turning his eager gaze to his father.

A warm smile softened the lines of his face. “I'll show you everything I know.” 

 

_ Macon, Georgia _

_ 1918 _

 

Rhett stared at the dark mahogany of his father’s desk. He was never called into the study to hear good news. The room itself was imposing. The walls were lined with bookshelves stuffed full of thick tomes on engineering and mathematics. The decor was done in deep greens and somber browns, down to the plush rug beneath Rhett’s chair. 

His father’s chair, on the opposite side of the desk, was turned to put its high leather back toward Rhett so its occupant could stare out the room’s only window. Rhett waited for long, tense moments, listening to the rustle of pages and grunts of disapproval from his father. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants before clasping his hands together in his lap. 

The chair creaked and swiveled slowly so his father could face him. The frown lines that bordered his mouth were deep in the shadow cast by his desk lamp. He set down Rhett’s school progress report and removed his glasses. He folded them carefully and sat them aside before steepling his fingers in front of his face. 

“If only you paid half as much attention to your studies as you do that damn banjo.”

Rhett winced, his stomach twisting with shame. “I’m sorry. But...it’s early in the semester. There will be time to make it up.” 

His father huffed. “There would be no need for ‘making it up’ if you had paid attention in the first place, son.”

Rhett chewed the inside of his lip, clenching his fists together. “Yes sir.” 

“I know you’re only fifteen but it’s never too early to think about continuing education.” 

Rhett struggled to keep his face blank, though he’d heard this lecture at least a dozen times in the past few years. 

“You’ll never get into Yale if you don’t put forth the effort,” his father said, taking on the preachy tone he used to make a point. “If I had had half the opportunities that you have, I’d have been damn grateful. My father didn’t care a whit if I went to college; I had to take the initiative to better myself.” 

Rhett was sure he could recite this very speech in his sleep. But he nodded, “Yes sir.” 

“You’re a very bright young man, Rhett, but if you want to succeed you  _ must  _ buckle down. Spend less time writing songs and more time studying your arithmetic.” 

“Yes sir.” 

Rhett’s mind was already drifting. His eyes flickered over the familiar pictures on the walls; all his father’s blueprints and photographs of the bridges and buildings he helped to create. Rhett was overwhelmed with a sinking feeling, settling like a leaden weight in his gut. His mind knew that he would be able to make a good living as an engineer but his heart would not be swayed. 

“Yale’s new School of Engineering is a state of the art facility. I would have given my eyeteeth to attend such a prestigious University.”

Rhett nodded along. His fingers tapped to the beat of the song he’d been writing. What he needed was someone to accompany him on the piano or perhaps the drums. 

“Rhett!” 

He jumped, meeting his father’s stern gaze. “Yes?”

“Can’t you stop daydreaming long enough to have a conversation?”

Rhett wanted to debate his use of the word ‘conversation’ since he was pretty sure it took two people talking to qualify. He bit his tongue, knowing sass would get him even further in a hole. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired, I suppose.”

His father took out his pocket watch and glanced at the time, raising his brows in surprise. “It is getting on, isn’t it?” 

Rhett could see that his father’s irritation was starting to fade, being replaced with weariness. He sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes. At times like these, the annoyance would drain out of Rhett and he’d feel guilty. His father was getting older. He just wanted to make sure his son would have a good career, a good life after he was gone. 

Rhett wished he could be everything his father wanted for him. Instead of the excitement a boy his age should feel about college, he only felt a deep and sickening dread, like the grey desolation of a prison sentence. He swallowed down his roiling nerves, setting them aside for yet another night. 

He stood, his rapidly increasing height making his father seem small and vulnerable, seated there at his desk. “I should be heading to bed. Church in the morning.” 

“Yes, yes.” His father waved him out. “Go on, then. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” 

Up the stairs and back in his room, Rhett gathered the textbooks piled on his bed and dumped them onto his desk. His banjo leaned against the edge of the desk, the silver rim and tuning pegs glinting in the lamplight. Rhett took it by the neck and settled down onto the side of his bed to practice. 

 

_ Macon, Georgia _

_ 1921 _

 

The train whistle sounded, giving Rhett a sharp thrill of nerves. He peered down the tracks, squinting in the morning light. He saw the smoke first, then the train manifested on the horizon, chugging steadily onward. It would be at the station in no time and it would be time for him to leave. He adjusted his damp grip on the handle of his trunk. 

His parents had accompanied him to the station; even Cole had come to see him off to college. It hurt to see him with the new limp in his gait; though, he was lucky to have survived the war at all. Many of the older boys in town had not been so fortunate. 

His mother, who had been weeping almost nonstop, came up to embrace him now as the train groaned to a slow halt. He held her tight and reminded her that the passengers first had to disembark before it was his turn to leave. 

“I just want to get in as many hugs as I can,” she sniffled, leaning back and patting his cheek. 

Ever since Cole was injured and discharged, his mother had been overly affectionate with both of them. The scare of nearly losing a child had softened her but done the opposite for their father. He was now more adamant than ever that Rhett should make the most of his life. 

The train doors hissed open and passengers began to flood out, bustling past the McLaughlins with their bags and suitcases. Rhett stuck close to his family as the rush of people slowed to a trickle. They were soon left waiting with all the others for their chance to board the train to Hartford. Rhett fidgeted with the ticket in his hand to disguise the trembling of his fingers.

He checked his watch every few minutes as the time crept closer and closer to his departure; he noticed his father discretely doing the same. His mother hung on his arm and patted down one of his dark blond curls that had broken free. It was a gesture so simple and comforting that it made his throat embarrassingly tight. He would put on a brave face and save his tears for the ride. 

As ten o’clock arrived, a conductor descended the steps of the train, leaning far out to call, “All Aboard!” 

Shuffling people gathered their things, embracing loved ones a last time before queuing up with their tickets. Rhett turned to face his family, his stomach twisted in knots. His father smiled, his eyes bright with pride. He stuck out his hand and Rhett shook it firmly. Cole hugged him next, clapping him roughly on the back. His mother was already in tears again by the time he took her in his arms. 

She squeezed him as tightly as she could, pushing the air out of his lungs. He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, averting his eyes to hide the tears clinging to his bottom lashes. 

When they stepped apart, she dabbed at her tears. “You must promise to write me.” 

“Of course I will.” 

“Every week!” she demanded. 

“ _ Diane _ ,” his father chastised. 

Rhett broke into a wide smile, blinking back the wetness in his eyes. “Every week, Mama.” 

She nodded, satisfied, and allowed herself to be tugged against her husband’s side. He put his arm soothingly around her and they waved Rhett off. 

Rhett took up his trunk and slung his banjo over his shoulder. He joined the procession onto the train, handing off his ticket in a daze and ducking inside. He was so tall that he had to stoop a little to avoid the ceiling as he made his way to his carriage. The compartment he was assigned to was blessedly empty and he fell into his seat with a heavy sigh. 

He tipped his head back against the wall and waited for the first lurch of the train. It wasn’t until they were rolling out of the station that he allowed the tears to fall. He watched the Georgian countryside slide past the windows, faster and faster. He’d miss the lush grass and the cherry blossom trees the most, and the scent of an orange grove in full bloom  — not to mention the creek behind his house, and the rural road he grew up on. He leaned his head against the window and soaked in his last day in the south. 

 

At six the following morning, Rhett detrained at the station in Hartford, Connecticut. Hoisting his belongings with him up to the ticket counter, he scanned the chalkboard of departures for his connection. The next train to New Haven would leave at noon. Just underneath New Haven was a train bound for New York. One that would leave in thirty minutes. 

Rhett scooched forward in line, the wheels in his head starting to turn. It would be so easy for him to do—to go to New York instead of to Yale. To abandon the plans laid by his father and pursue his dreams. The banjo on his back seemed to get heavier by the second, demanding all of his attention. When it came time for him to buy his ticket, he felt his mouth moving though his mind was twisted up and paralyzed. He laid down his money and heard himself say it:

“New York.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if you were expecting some immediate rhink but there were tracks to be laid... ;)


	3. Chapter 3

_ New York, New York _

_ 1925 _

 

Rhett’s eyes were so transfixed to the plume of smoke billowing from Miss Charlie’s rouged lips that he almost missed the question. His fingers tensed around the cigarette case in his hand, and he quickly fumbled one out and up to his lips. 

Miss Charlie rocked forward from where he’d been leaning against the adjacent wall. The click of his heels carried, loud in the deserted alley as he strolled casually up to Rhett. He still had to tilt his head up to meet Rhett’s gaze. Rhett had thought seeing Miss Charlie up close would break the illusion, that he’d see the man underneath the makeup and lose the attraction he felt. But looking directly into the startling blue of his kohl-rimmed eyes, Rhett realized he was feeling exactly the opposite. 

Rhett’s heart was hammering away in his chest as the enchanting man leaned in closer, bringing the cherry end of his cigarette to Rhett’s. Rhett stared down his nose, watching the paper catch and burn. Two cigarette lengths was all that separated his mouth from the red cupid’s bow of Miss Charlie’s. He breathed in, allowing the smoke to fill his mouth and lungs. After a long moment, Miss Charlie stepped back and Rhett finally released the smoke. It poured from his nose and mouth in thick clouds, disappearing into the night air. He watched in rapt fascination as Miss Charlie did the same. 

The unbuttoned halves of his shirt hung open, exposing the black lace of his brazier and the pale swath of skin in between. Rhett’s eyes danced over the sharp clavicle, the long pale throat bound in a silk choker. His mouth felt dry and his hands felt damp. He removed the cigarette to wet his lips before he spoke. 

“You’re very talented.” It was a weak compliment; Rhett had never felt so lost for words. 

A flash of sharp, white teeth as Miss Charlie’s lips turned up in a lopsided smile, “Thanks, Stretch.”

Rhett drew in a sharp breath at the sudden swoop of his stomach; he felt as if he were rocketing down a steep hill. 

“How tall are you, anyway?” Miss Charlie mused, peering curiously up at him. 

“Oh, about six-foot-seven.” He stooped down a little, as if to apologize for his uncommon height.

Miss Charlie let out a low whistle, raking his eyes up and down the length of Rhett’s frame; the thin lines of his brows pulled into an arch. Rhett noticed for the first time the faint outline of his real eyebrows, where they had been stuck down and painted over. They followed the same soft, downward slant as the feminine brows that had been artfully drawn into place. 

“You and I should dance sometime,” Miss Charlie said with a wink. “I can finally be the shorter one for a change.” 

Rhett’s face reddened, his heart doing erratic skips. He cleared his throat, “I’m not much of a dancer, I’m afraid.”

Miss Charlie reached out one long-fingered hand and placed it on Rhett’s shoulder. “Well, perhaps you’ve never had the right partner,” he purred. With his other hand, he took one of Rhett’s and settled it in the dip of his slim waist. 

Rhett was sure the other man could see the pulse flickering in his throat. He could feel himself start to sweat despite the coolness of the evening. He parted his lips to speak but a metallic screech stopped him short. 

They both turned to see a blonde woman in a flashy dress standing in the doorway. Her narrow brown eyes fixed on Miss Charlie then opened wide with excitement. 

“Honey, you just gotta come inside! Your admirers are getting antsy.” She lifted her thin brows with a suggestive smirk of her heart-shaped mouth. 

She put out her hand with a clatter of chunky bangles. Miss Charlie rolled his eyes but took her small hand in his, letting her guide him inside. Just when Rhett thought he was leaving for good, Miss Charlie whirled back around as if he’d forgotten something very important. 

“I never asked your name,” he said, watching Rhett with expectant blue eyes. 

Rhett grinned broadly, suffused with warmth. “It’s Rhett.” 

Miss Charlie considered him for a long moment before finally breaking into a smile and sticking out his hand. “Call me Link.”

_ Link. _ Rhett shook his hand and watched him go. He didn’t miss the glance that Link threw over his shoulder before he disappeared inside. 

 

After accepting a mountain of flowers and ushering his last guest out his dressing room, Link collapsed into the chair in front of his vanity. He looked at his blurry reflection and sighed. The curl was falling out of his hair and he was starting to sweat through the white grease paint on his face. He toed out of his heels and unclasped his brazier. 

On his vanity, he laid out a clean hand towel and a jar of cold cream. He removed his rings, sliding them into the velvet pockets of his jewelry box. Then he began his nightly ritual of rubbing the cream onto his face, covering every inch before he took up the towel and carefully started to wipe himself clean. The white paint slowly disappeared, revealing peachy skin underneath, the ruby lips following next. Eyes were the last to go; mascara and kohl being the hardest to remove. He scrubbed hard at his brows, the paint and glue yielding to reveal the natural, dark hairs. 

Finally, he folded the towel over and removed the lingering cream around his jaw and hairline. He stuck his hand in his hair, shaking out his long bangs until they were draped messily over his forehead. Link reached for a black leather case and cracked it open. The gold, rounded glasses within were the last step to the transformation. He slid them on, tucking the arms around his ears before facing his reflection once again. 

He looked impossibly young out of his costume, despite the tired bruises below his eyes. He searched his own gaze for a moment, like he could find some answers there, but all he saw was the same young, desperate boy from North Carolina. 

 

_ Buies Creek, North Carolina _

_ 1918 _

 

Link wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. He stretched out his back and tipped his head back to the clear blue sky. It was high noon and the sun was beating down relentlessly, soaking through his thin cotton shirt with perspiration. He wanted nothing more than to dive into the cool water of the Cape Fear river but he had to finish cropping the tobacco before his uncle gave him another tongue lashing for daydreaming on the job. 

He hummed to himself as he went about his work, trying to forget the sweltering heat and the strain of his muscles. When he was finally finished for the day, he brought in his bundles to be strung by his two cousins and the mute farmhand they called Tex. His uncle surveyed their work, his eyes the same steely blue as Link’s father’s and his own. 

Seeing that everything was satisfactory, his uncle dug a grimy hand into his overalls and pulled out a few sweaty bills. He counted out Link’s wages for the week and handed over the money with a hearty clap to his shoulder. Link swayed with the movement and smiled through a grimace at his aching back. He pocketed his pay and waved a farewell to his tired co-workers before trudging back into the field. 

Link walked the long lines of green tobacco plants until he reached the edge of the woods. He gratefully disappeared into the shade of the trees, following the distant sound of water to where he longed to be. He pulled off his damp shirt and wedged it through one of his belt loops, letting the meager summer breeze cool his overheated skin. 

His feet followed the familiar path he’d taken for years, nimbly avoiding fallen branches and bramble in his way. The sound of water grew louder the deeper he ventured, the ground becoming soft and damp as he broke free of the treeline and came to the edge of the river. 

The water was moving lazily, burbling over the stones that formed a makeshift pathway to a small island in its center. The singing birds and the distant mooing of cattle joined the river’s song; a soothing balm to Link’s soul. He sighed deeply and kicked out of his boots, pants following next until he was left in his underwear. 

He sank down into the sandy grass at the riverside and dangled his feet into the cool water. He leaned back on his hands, enjoying the soothing current passing between his toes. Once he became acclimated to the temperature, he eased himself into the water, shivering but relieved. This place had become a refuge for him, calm and separate from everything about his life he couldn’t stand. 

Link looked at his hands, raw and dirty from working the fields. He scrubbed them roughly under the water but the dirt beneath his fingernails remained. He scowled at them in bitter disappointment; the farmer’s life was not for him. He sank lower into the water and stretched out on his back, wetting his hair as he gazed up at the cloudless sky. 

He let himself drift for a while, carried along by the river. In times like these, he let his mind wander to his favorite fantasies. He saw himself under a spotlight, bowing to an adoring crowd. He pictured flowers being tossed at his feet, a standing ovation. He imagined a life in which he could support himself on talent instead of off the sweat of his back. 

His mother loved him, and would love him no matter how he chose to make a living, but he couldn’t do that to her. She came from a long line of farmers, as did his absent father. She herself a nurse, and a good one. But Link couldn’t leave her behind to pursue his dreams. He had only just passed his fourteenth birthday but he’d been working for his uncle since he was eleven. He knew the income he earned from tobacco farming was crucial to keeping them out of poverty. 

Link grew tired of floating and waded out to the small island that bisected the river. He hauled himself up onto the bank and into the tall grass where he liked to lay. He stretched out on the warm earth, letting the sun dry him slowly. He’d stay there, twisting blades of grass around his fingers and singing softly to himself, until the sun lowered in the sky and his mother would be heading home. 

  
  


_ Buies Creek, North Carolina _

_ 1921 _

 

Link held his mother’s hand in the doctor’s office; her face was braver than his. She knew what her symptoms meant— seeing a doctor was just a formality. Link had begged her to go, hoping against hope that she was wrong. 

The doctor entered the room, results in hand, his face pale and drawn. He pinned up the x-rays he had taken so that Link and his mother could see. It didn’t take a professional to see the dark clouds marring the lungs. The doctor was speaking but Link’s ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton. He felt himself shrinking down inside, like he was watching the scene unfold from the back of a long, dark room. 

His mother was nodding along, her face resolute. Link wanted to ask questions; he’d had them all planned out in his head, but faced with this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Tears were standing in Link’s eyes when the doctor finally shook their hands and left the room. His mother, sensing his pain, pulled him against her side, stroking his back like she used to do when he was a child who couldn’t get to sleep. 

Her fearlessness, her ability to comfort when she was the one who needed it most, moved Link to a wrenching sob. He gathered his mother up in his arms and she held him, letting him cry. 

 

Over the months that followed, Link begged her to seek treatment from a Sanatorium in Virginia. She held firm in her decision not to move away, much to his helpless despair. 

“I know what they do in those places,” she explained, for the hundredth time. “I’ll get plenty of fresh air and rest right where I am.” 

“But mother, if there’s a chance they can help you, you must try!” 

She placed her hand over his and smiled patiently. “There’s no cure for tuberculosis, sweetheart. If I’m to die, I wish only to die at home.”

Link eventually gave up begging. He knew this was not his decision to make. All he could do was stay near her, to work and keep them afloat while she took her rest. He tended to her every need, acting as provider and nursemaid. He sat with her for long, quiet hours on their front porch, rocking slowly in their chairs and drinking tea.  

With every coughing fit, every blood stained handkerchief, the world grew a little bleaker. Link felt like he was deep underwater, drowning and desperate as he watched his mother deteriorate right before his eyes. On the day he woke up to find her sweating and barely conscious, he sent immediately for the doctor. He stayed with her, holding her hand and speaking quietly. She seemed to know him, despite her delirium; she squeezed his fingers with all of her waning strength. 

When the doctor came, he shooed Link out of the room. Link waited in the hallway, pacing up and down until he couldn’t take it anymore. He strode into the kitchen and set about brewing a pot of coffee for himself and the doctor. His hands shook as he lifted the boiling kettle, sloshing some onto the back of his arm, but he barely felt the burn. 

The mug he picked out for himself slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor with a jarring crash. Link knelt and began scooping the shards into his trembling hands— he didn’t realize he was crying until he saw his tears hitting the floor. Link sat back on his heels, gripping the broken pieces until they pierced the skin of his palms. The pain distracted him from the roaring emptiness in his chest; a sucking void ready to devour him. 

The doctor cleared his throat from the doorway. Link’s head jerked up, his face red and streaked with tears. 

“I’ve given her something for the pain,” the doctor said, his voice low and respectful. “I’m afraid, it’s all I can do.” 

Link dropped his head again, nodding as his chin trembled. The doctor set aside his bag and stooped down. He gingerly opened Link’s palms and pulled the bloodied porcelain from his skin, making small shushing sounds as Link continued to weep. The doctor cleaned his wounds with antiseptic and wrapped a length of gauze around his injured palms. Link couldn’t form any words to express his gratitude, but the doctor didn’t seem to be seeking any thanks. 

He picked up the rest of Link’s mess before he left him alone in the kitchen. A few moments later, he heard the front door close and a hacking cough issued from his mother’s room. Link rose to his feet and hastily wiped the tears from his face; he had to keep it together now, for her. 

 

The cops came to talk to Link on the day of the funeral. He was the last to leave the graveside; having stood there in the grey morning until it began to rain. When he turned to go, he came face to face with the officers, who must have approached silently and stood at a distance to wait. With the two policemen, stood a thin man in a black suit. He had an umbrella in his gloved hand and wore an appropriately sympathetic expression. 

“Charles Lincoln Neal?” spoke the older officer, in a gentle baritone. 

Link nodded, eyes darting between the three men nervously.

“We understand that you’ve no living or able relative to take you in.”

Link chewed his lip, debating mentioning his father. But he hadn’t seen the man in years; he hadn’t even shown up to the funeral. 

Taking Link’s silence as an affirmative, the other officer chimed in. “We’ve brought with us Mr. Wexler from the Children’s Home Society.” 

The man in the suit stepped forward and stuck out his hand to Link. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Neal, despite the dreadful circumstance.”

Link shook his hand but regarded him with wary eyes. A feeling of dread settled heavily in his stomach. 

“As per the law of the state of North Carolina, I’m to accompany you to your new home,” Mr. Wexler said. “You’re being provided lodging in the Greensboro Children’s Home until you come of age.”

He said this like he was bestowing some kind of gift— as if being a seventeen year old in a house of children was something to be grateful for. Link clenched his fists by his sides. 

“No, thank you,” Link replied tersely and made to move past the men blocking his path. 

The older officer placed his hand on Link’s chest, holding him in place. Link had the overwhelming urge to punch him but managed to restrain himself. 

“I’m afraid it’s not up to you,” the officer explained. “I hope you’ll not cause us to use force.”

Link searched the man’s weary eyes and knew there was no way out. No amount of imploring would prevent these men from doing their jobs. He swallowed down the fear and anger and nodded mutely. 

Mr. Wexler smiled beneath his bushy mustache. “Very good, Mr. Neal. Please return home and collect your things. I’ll fetch you in the morning; our train to Greensboro will depart at ten A.M.”

  
  


Link made the short walk home from the cemetery in a daze, the cold drizzle sticking his clothes to his back. His head was throbbing, spinning with wonderings and fears about what the future would hold for him. The thought of being taken away from his hometown and made to live with strangers was incomprehensible. Though, looking around his eerily silent house, it became clear to him that this place was no longer his home. 

His eyes wandered over the familiar surroundings; the settee in the living room and the antique harpsichord, the twin rocking chairs on the front porch. Every stick of furniture brought with them painful memories. Walking past his mother’s room was nearly unbearable, and he would do so while holding his breath and watching the floor. She was in the very walls of this house; in the dust motes drifting in the shafts of light that filtered in through the thin drapes she’d made herself. The tiny embroidered flowers on the tablecloth he’d known since he was a child, and the matching plates that sat in the cupboard, held her presence. 

He stood in his bedroom, taking in his bed, his desk, the few toys that had survived childhood. His drawings on the walls, his collection of polished river stones in the shoebox at the bottom of his closet. Moving woodenly, he slid his one suitcase out from under the bed and laid it open like a flayed fish. He gathered all of the clothing from his closet, the socks and undergarments from his dresser, and his good pair of church shoes. 

Lastly, he carefully wrapped a small framed photograph, the only one of his mother that he had. She was younger and painfully pretty, a slight smile lingering at the edges of her mouth. He tucked it safely away in his suitcase before snapping it shut and sitting down beside it on the bed. Link’s face dropped into his hands and he sighed heavily. He had run out of tears to cry and was left with a dry and aching sadness that seemed to stretch on forever. 

He rubbed his sore eyes and looked up, his blurry vision refocusing on the cabinet at the very end of the hall. All of his mother’s good silver was stored inside; she loved to polish it in her free time though she never had cause to use any of it. 

Link sat up straight, hairs standing on end. A lightning bolt of a thought had stuck him, as if someone planted it in his mind. His heart started to race, eyes still fixed on the silver cabinet. He stood and moved towards it, compelled forward like there was a force pushing at his back. His hands landed on the handle of the top drawer and he pulled it open. 

Inside, dozens of pieces of fine silver cutlery gleamed in the late morning light. Link traced a fingertip over the filigree at the base of a butter knife and felt a shiver run down his spine. All at once, he knew what he had to do. He pulled the entire drawer free and carried it to his room. He took the forks first and wrapped them in a shirt, setting the bundle neatly in his suitcase. He did the same for all of the spoons and knives and then went back for the engraved serving tray that showed his haggard reflection as clear as a mirror. 

He met his own manic looking eyes and barely recognized himself. He quickly packed it away, having to abandon a pair of trousers to make everything fit. This decision was a final one. There was no going back and yet, he found that he wasn’t scared. His fear had been replaced with a resolute calmness he couldn’t explain. He imagined his mother was looking down on him, blessing him with peace of mind. 

He shrugged on his jacket and grabbed up his suitcase. At the door, he pulled on his hat, but left the umbrella in the stand. The rain had stopped and the sun was peeking through the clouds. Link took one last, lingering gaze at the only home he had ever known, before he stepped outside and closed the door on it forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed this little detour into Link's past! If you're interested, you can find all of my illustrations and character sketches for this fic over at my tumblr: http://magicbubblepipe.tumblr.com/search/all+that+jazz+fic


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your encouragement! Your comments mean the world to me <3

_ September 22nd, 1925 _

_ New York, New York _

 

Rhett woke to find Philippe facedown on their couch with one glossy dress shoe still on. His face was smashed against a cushion, mouth open and drooling a wet patch into the fabric. Shaking his head, Rhett padded over to the kitchenette and started to brew some coffee, hoping that the smell would wake his friend. He had a lot of questions that needed to be answered. 

When Rhett had gone back into the speakeasy the night before, he’d found the table he’d been sharing with Philippe and Gray to be empty. This was not uncommon; Philippe was a bit of a wildcard and Grayson simply wandered off sometimes without saying a word. Rhett had enjoyed a few more drinks and the rest of the night’s entertainment before Philippe came staggering back over to the table, flushed and solidly drunk. He was leaning heavily on Gray and talking excitedly; about what, Rhett had no idea. 

When the coffee was done, Rhett poured out a generous cup for himself. Gray trudged out from his bedroom, his eyes red-rimmed and crusted with sleep. Rhett knew better than to make any comments; Gray was notorious for being snappy in the morning. Rhett poured him a cup and Gray accepted it silently, taking a long swig of the scalding liquid before disappearing back into his darkened room. 

Rhett poured the remaining coffee in their last clean mug before crossing back over to the couch where Phil was still snoring obnoxiously. He knelt down and waved the cup just under his face, letting the steam curl up towards Philippe’s nose. The sleeping man sat up almost instantly, half of his face red, creased and streaked with dried spit. 

“You’re a vision,” Rhett said with a smirk. 

Philippe scrubbed at his eyes and slowly willed himself into a seated position. Rhett handed over the cup and Phil let it warm his hands while he waited for his brain to start working. 

“Time’s’it?” he slurred, dark blue eyes blinking blearily at Rhett. 

“Half past ten,” Rhett replied, watching as Phil took a long, bracing drink of the black coffee. “What happened last night?” 

Philippe’s eyes grew wide in recognition, and he accidentally sloshed some coffee onto the couch in his excitement. “Shit,” he grumbled, wiping at the setting stain, as if that would help. 

“Not the worst this couch has seen, I’m afraid,” Rhett shrugged. 

Philippe nodded grudgingly, knowing that the majority of the stains had been caused by his own hand. Then he said with a smug grin, “Anyhow, you should be thanking me.” 

“Thanking you? For what?” 

“For getting us a gig,” he announced, with a flip of his thoroughly mangled hair. 

Rhett’s mouth dropped open and he smiled. “Well done, you old polecat! Where is it?” 

“At the Backroom, where else?”

Rhett’s heart skipped a beat; the memory of Miss Charlie— of  _ Link _ — still fresh in his mind. It took him a moment to realize that Philippe was still talking. 

“The manager of the place is a real riot. We talked business and we shared his bottle of fifty year old Bourbon. I’m proud to say that I drank the old boy right under the table. And would you believe it- he’s heard of us!” 

Phil’s ability to shake off a hangover through sheer enthusiasm never ceased to baffle Rhett.  

“Now you’re blowing smoke,” Rhett replied, squinting skeptically. 

“No fooling, I swear! He saw us last month at the Easy Street and said he’d never heard anything like it.”  

“Well, I suppose that could be good _ or _ bad.” 

“Don’t be such a growse,” Phil imitated Rhett’s disgruntled eyebrows perfectly enough to make him laugh. 

“Alright, alright,” Rhett relented, “When is it?”

“This Friday night, so we better get practicing.” 

“Psh. You might need to practice but I can’t improve on perfection,” Rhett said through a barely stifled grin. 

Philippe pushed him by the shoulder, upsetting his tenuous balance on the balls of his feet. Rhett fell backwards with a burst of laughter that made Phil flinch and rub his temples. 

“You better quit with the ruckus before Gray comes out and takes a switch to you,” Philippe complained, but Rhett could see amusement lurking just beneath the annoyance. 

“I’ll tell him you caused it so he’ll whip us both.” 

“Sounds like a party,” said another voice from the window. 

Rhett and Philippe turned to see Joseph coming in from the fire escape, long legs stepping over the window sill. 

“Hey Joe, where’s Abe?” Rhett asked, taking in his band mate’s haphazard appearance. Knowing Joe, he probably hadn’t slept at all. 

Joseph looked around as if he’d expected Abraham to be following him. He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “How should I know? I ain’t his mother.” 

His affected nonchalance didn’t fool Rhett or Phil; they both knew the two of them were practically joined at the hip. 

Joseph pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and took it between his full lips, so that he could use both hands to strike a match and shield it from the breeze blowing in from the open window. He waved out the match and tossed it into a nearby ashtray before sprawling out in the battered armchair he’d long since claimed as his own. His keen dark eyes surveyed Philippe’s haggard appearance. 

“Long night?” he asked with a curl of his lips. 

“You’re one to talk,” Phil quipped, “You look like hell.” 

“Don’t I always?” 

Rhett snorted; he had a point. Joseph wore his devil-may-care attitude on his sleeve, often staying out all night, waking up in strange apartments with strange men and women; getting in fights and causing trouble. Rhett knew it drove Joe’s roommate, Abe, up the wall but the boy was too polite to say anything. He practically worshipped Joseph for being everything that he was not— confident and careless. 

Philippe relayed the good news to Joseph and asked about the show he and Abe had played in Harlem the night before. 

“Good crowd, though most of ‘em were Abe’s friends and family. It was smack-dab in the middle of the kid’s old neighborhood,” Joe said, taking a drag off his cigarette. “I think I even saw his granny.”

“A familiar crowd is better than no crowd, to be sure,” Rhett encouraged with a lift of his coffee mug. 

“Speaking of crowd,” Philippe started, “You should have seen the turnout for the main act at The Backroom.” 

Rhett felt a frisson of nerves, afraid of how much Philippe would tell. 

“You mean Miss Charlie?” Joseph asked, much to their surprise. 

“You’ve heard of him?” Rhett exclaimed; he could see the slight smirk curling the corner of Phil’s mouth. 

“Yeah, I mean, I get around,” Joe said with a shrug and a slow pull off his cigarette. “He’s got talent.”

“Rhett sure thought so,” Philippe said with an obvious wink. 

Joseph let loose a burst of surprised laughter. He looked Rhett up and down in a way that made Rhett feel virtually groped. “Alright, Georgia Peach. Didn’t know you had it in ya.” 

Rhett grimaced at the silly monicker but Joe was Joe. If he didn’t give you an embarrassing nickname, he didn’t like you. 

“Very funny,” Rhett replied. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s just a passing fancy.” 

Joseph looked like he didn’t believe a word of it, yet was too tired to argue the point. 

“Can I get you some coffee?” Rhett asked. It was an obvious ploy to change the conversation but Joseph took the bait. 

“Coffee would be  _ mar _ -velous.” The accent of Joe’s New Orleanian upbringing cropped up occasionally, drawing out some words and slurring others. Listening to him speak sometimes made Rhett a little homesick for the south. 

“It’ll take a minute,” Rhett said as he stood to go to the kitchen. “I’ll have to brew some more.” 

Joe leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “I’m in no rush.” 

 

_ September 25th, 1925 _

_ New York, New York _

 

The owner of The Backroom was surprisingly young. His dark green eyes were shrewd and quick, sizing up whomever he spoke to in a way that made one feel naked. He was a businessman to a fault, unwilling to play games or beat around the bush, which Rhett rather liked. He was a direct kind of person; the kind of directness that some might call rude, but Rhett found it refreshing. 

It was just after noon when he led them inside through the alley door, down the hallway, past the bathrooms and into the club. Mr. Katz, as he had introduced himself, chatted excitedly with Philippe. They got on like a house on fire, but then again, one would be hard-pressed to find someone who didn’t like Philippe. 

“Normally, I’d have you boys audition but as it happens, your reputation precedes you,” Mr. Katz explained. 

This news would usually delight Rhett but he could barely react to anything the man was saying. Where they stood, they were in clear view of the stage where something far more interesting was happening. There was, what appeared to be, a makeshift photography studio. The lights were up though there was no audience. On the stage, they had brought out a lovely chaise lounge and piled it with large, plush pillows. And reclining there with a coquettish smile was none other than Miss Charlie himself. 

Rhett’s mouth went dry; his heart accelerated. Miss Charlie,  no— _ Link _ , wore a thin, white shift adorned with bright red ribbons. The garment just brushed the tops of his soft thighs, which were exposed and shaved clean. His stockings were rolled down below his knees in a way that was practically pornographic. They hugged his slim calves and ended in a pair of black satin heels, gleaming with ruby clips that perfectly matched Link’s mocking mouth. 

At that moment, he looked past the photographer and spotted Rhett staring open-mouthed in his direction. Link’s eyes sparked with recognition and his smile grew wide and genuine. He stretched out a little further on the chaise, his slip riding up to expose a peek of ruffly white panties. He watched Rhett, gauging his reaction, as he took one of his long strings of pearls between his slender fingers and placed it between his equally white teeth. 

“Good, good,” the photographer praised. “Hold that pose.” 

Rhett’s throat was tight, sweat gathering in the notch of neck. He loosened the top button of his shirt in an attempt to draw a deeper breath. He knew he was getting red; he could feel his pulse pounding through every vein, roaring in his ears. He watched as the photographer took a couple more, shockingly noisy, pictures before thanking Link and packing his equipment away. 

“You fellas can take the stage just as soon as Charlie clears out,” Mr. Katz said. “He’s getting publicity photos done.” 

Philippe whistled. “Well, that ought to do the trick. So long as you can keep people from tearing down the posters to take home.” 

Mr. Katz guffawed and clapped Philippe on the back. Rhett watched as the photographer left and a couple of stagehands emerged from the curtains to strike the stage. Link descended the stairs from the stage, heels echoing loudly in the mostly vacant room. Fearlessly, he sauntered up to them, hips swishing tantalizingly under the loose fabric. 

“Stage is all yours, boys,” Link said, thick-lashed eyes looking between each band member before settling finally on Rhett. 

He stepped closer and put a well manicured hand in the center of Rhett’s chest.

“Good to see you again, Stretch. I can’t wait to see what you can do,” Link purred. He winked one brilliant eye at him before he turned and slinked away towards the back of the house. 

Rhett let out a shaky breath. He hadn’t been able to speak, completely tongue-tied and wrapped around Link’s little finger. Silence hung in the air and he could feel the eyes boring into his back. He turned around to see an almost comical array of expressions on his friends’ faces. Philippe and Grayson were both smug and knowing. Joseph was clearly delighted, staring at Link’s retreating back with a hungry smirk. Abraham’s eyes were the size of dinner plates, utterly dumbstruck. Mr. Katz was unsurprised to the point of near boredom. 

“Well,” said Mr. Katz, clapping his hands together. “You heard the lady. Stage is all yours, gents. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” 

Philippe was the first to strut up to the stage, swinging his clarinet case. The other boys followed dutifully but Rhett felt rooted to the spot. He blinked the dazed look out of his eyes and ascended the steps, banjo slung over his shoulder.  

Rhett was making a few tuning adjustments to his instrument when he felt the sting of Joseph’s eyes drilling into the side of his face. 

“What?” he asked, though he had a feeling he already knew. 

“I never would have known, either, Rhett.” 

“Known what?” 

Joseph lifted his thick eyebrows as he rosined his bow, long tawny fingers moving slowly and suggestively. “He’s got a sweet little figure on him. Bet you’d love to get your hands under that dress…  and I think he’d let ya.” 

Rhett’s face flared with a burst of renewed heat. He couldn’t help the physical reactions the thought coaxed from his body. He furtively adjusted the front of his trousers and held his banjo a little lower. 

“You’re a fiend,” Rhett said, only half joking. “A fiend and a  _ dog _ .” 

Joseph tossed his head back on an exuberant laugh. “Oh, don’t I know it!” 


	5. Chapter 5

_ September 25, 1925 _

_ New York, New York _

 

Rhett stared down at his uncomfortable dress shoes; they were somewhat dated, but they shone up like new when he took a rag to them. His charcoal grey pants had been re-hemmed a few times, but were still decent enough. He was already starting to sweat under his jacket, his bow-tie pressing in against his rushing pulse. 

He and the rest of the band were crowded into a small alcove behind the stage. Joseph and Grey were sitting on the stairs behind him, leading up to the door marked “Props”. They watched other performers in various stages of undress rush past them, tending to all of their last minute touch ups and wardrobe tweaks before the curtain rose. 

Rhett hadn’t seen Link since their rehearsal that afternoon, but he had walked past the closed dressing room door marked “Miss Charlie”, and heard Link on the other side, doing vocal exercises along with an unfamiliar female. 

“Smoking Banjos?” a young stagehand asked, poking his head around the corner. 

“That’s us,” Rhett replied, his stomach leaping with anticipation. 

“Five minutes to curtain,” the boy warned, holding up five wiggling fingers. 

“Thank you, five,” Philippe called back, returning the hand gesture. 

The boy nodded and disappeared around the corner once again.

Rhett drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. This was far from their first performance, but something about it seemed different; like the beginning of something big. Rhett clutched the strap of his banjo, his thumb stroking a worn spot in the leather. Four more minutes. 

 

“Do up my dress, Erma?” Link asked, standing before his vanity. 

The willowy blonde pinched her cigarette between her red lips and deftly did up the row of satin buttons on the back of Link’s costume. She peered at Link over his shoulder, appraising him with keen brown eyes. 

Link wriggled his hips at her and she playfully swatted his silk-swathed bottom. 

“I see that Tall-Dark-and-Beardy is in the opening act,” Erma said with a quirk of her razor thin brows. 

Link uncapped a tube of plum colored lipstick, taking his time in carefully tracing the shape of his cupid’s bow. “Oh?” he said, airily. “I didn’t notice.”

She rolled her eyes, blowing out a long stream of smoke. “Well if you’re not interested, I wouldn’t mind taking a crack at ‘im.” 

“I didn’t say that!” 

“Gotcha,” she winked. “Besides, I like his friend. That stoic redhead.” 

Link hummed. “I gotta be honest, I didn’t really take notice of any of them besides Rhett.”

“Oh, so it’s  _ Rhett  _ now? I like it,” she mused. “Sounds like a strapping farm boy name.”

“Watch it,” Link warned, spritzing himself with his atomizer. “That farm boy is mine.” 

She giggled. “I wouldn’t dream of coming between you, honey.” 

They were interrupted by a sudden burst of music. Rhett’s band had obviously launched into their set, reverberating through the thin walls of the backstage area. Link froze to listen, then followed the sound right out of his dressing room and into the narrow hall. The music swelled as he approached the innermost stage curtain, Erma tagging along behind him and complaining for him to slow down. 

The music pulsed up through the floor at a frantic ragtime pace, though it was unlike any sound that Link had ever heard. Brash but melodic, it skirted the line between jazz and folk music, with a distinct country twang that made Link homesick. And through it all rose a deep, smoky voice that struck low in Link’s gut and stole his breath. 

He couldn’t help it; he had to see. He pressed forward; the gap in the curtains was just wide enough peer through with one eye. Link was greeted with the startling brightness of the stage, every band member traced in light that made the audience vanish into blackness. His eyes drew inevitably toward Rhett. He stood at least half a foot taller than everyone else, his wide back straining his waistcoat and the cotton shirt beneath. 

Rhett’s jacket lay discarded upstage and he’d rolled his sleeves up to the crooks of his elbows. Link tracked his movements like a hawk, the way his body swayed to the music as he furiously picked his banjo with long, nimble fingers. And then, there it was—that voice. Rhett opened his mouth and sang, a song that Link didn’t know, but was growing to love. He felt weak in the knees as that smooth timbre filled the air, weaving beautifully through the instrumentals. 

He felt Erma’s bony elbow dig into his side as she sidled in for a look. Link grudgingly moved over enough for her to get her pointy nose through the gap. She gasped and murmured approvingly, jostling Link with a clattering of her big wooden bangles. 

“Listen to that voice!” she shouted next to Link’s ear. “Couldn’t you just die! I would just die!”

“I’d hear it better with my eardrums intact, thank you very much!” Link yelled back, though a grin was still teasing at his lips. 

He ignored the raspberry she blew in his direction in favor of drinking in more of Rhett. He was captivating, like the music was bubbling up from inside him. His whole body radiated a frenetic energy, as if he could barely contain it. In his time in New York, Link had been privileged enough to watch hundreds of entertainers grace the stage. Though rough around the edges, and far from perfect, Rhett’s music had that indescribable factor shared by all true talents.

Link felt his hunger for the other man deepening. His mind reeled with vivid fantasies, all starring that long, graceful body undulating against his own. Watching his fingers fly over the strings, Link wondered what other wonderful things they were capable of. He fought the urge to bite his lips, for the sake of his makeup, and decided he better beat a hasty retreat if he wanted time to calm down before his own performance. 

He hurried back to his dressing room, grateful to find it empty; Erma must have found better company elsewhere. With the door shut behind him, he met his reflection in the vanity mirror. His face was flushed red under his fake pink blush; his pupils were wide, black pools. He sighed and carefully sank into his chair, mindful of the half-hardness trapped between his thighs. He took a sip from his abandoned cocktail glass and levelled a stern look at himself in the mirror. 

“Show must go on,” he said. 

 

For Rhett, the performance flew past in a blur. He got caught up in the energy of the crowd, his own thundering heartbeat, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His fingers played the familiar melodies without requiring thought; his mouth formed words he’d written himself. The band worked together like a well oiled machine, taking unspoken cues from one another. It was easy as breathing. 

Rhett could make out the chaotic jostling of bodies on the dance floor, all of them moving to a sound he created. It was an intoxicating feeling, and one that he could never get bored of. He leaned into the music, his hair loosening from its coif and hanging in sweaty curls across his forehead. His undone bowtie hung about his neck, framing the patch of skin exposed by the opened buttons of his shirt. 

He cast his eyes around at his bandmates, grinning hard at the sight of their genuine enjoyment. Greyson’s usual smooth facade was interrupted by his concentration. Deep lines cut between his brows, tension flickering under the skin of his sharp jaw. Philippe did everything with a flourish, showboating his expensive clarinet. Joseph’s expression was equal parts serious and slack with pleasure, his eyes closed. Abe spent half his time watching Joe, and beaming as well as he could with the mouthpiece of a saxophone between his lips. 

They were all in their element, and they’d never sounded better, Rhett was sure of it. By the end of the set, they had nearly everyone out of their chairs and on the floor. After the last note faded in the air, there was a heartbeat of awed silence before the crowd burst into a raucous applause. All of the dancers turned and clapped vigorously; those still seated were pounding the floor with their feet. 

Glowing with satisfaction, Rhett took the hands of his bandmates and they bowed together in a long chain. 

The curtains closed before them, and a young stagehand emerged from the wings to help strike their set. Rhett swept his jacket up off the floor and hung it over his arm, his banjo slung over his back. They struggled their way backstage, temporarily blinded by the sudden darkness. Rhett was leading the way down the dimly lit hallway, when a door swung open right in front of him. 

Rhett’s breath left him in an “oof” as he collided full on with another person, whose dark hair was now just below his nose. Each person righted themselves, apologies dying on their lips when they made eye contact. Link’s dark violet lips pulled into a dazzling smile as he gazed up at Rhett. Heartbeat thumping, Rhett struggled to take in all of Link at once; there was too much to look at. His mesmerizing eyes, the pink satin dress draped over his slim frame. It gathered just under his backside and dropped into a feather lined hem that stopped a few inches short of his slender ankles. 

His wrists and fingers glittered with jewels; a black velvet choker wrapped around his neck, adorned with diamonds or something quite like them. Rhett was utterly tongue-tied, but Link seemed to have no such difficulties. 

He laughed off the encounter, once again placing his hand in the middle of Rhett’s broad chest. It looked absurdly delicate for its size, thanks to Rhett’s tremendous height. He felt it like a small brand, burning its mark straight through to the skin. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Link said breezily, sashaying past the others who hurriedly made way for him. He tossed one more smirk over his shoulder and said, “Drinks in my dressing room after the show. You’re all invited.” 

Just like that, he was gone and Rhett was left standing there, dumbfounded. Yet again. 

Joseph interrupted his mental implosion with a snorting laugh. He patted Rhett heartily on the back and edged his way around him, violin case in hand. 

Rhett’s legs felt too loose, a little tingly, but he forced them to carry him the rest of the way to his dressing room. He had to clean up in a hurry if he didn’t want to miss Link’s performance. 

He put his banjo back in its case, along with his finger picks. There was a pitcher of water on a washtable in the corner, which Rhett poured out into a basin and used to wash the sweat from his face. 

Joseph sat down on the vanity and plucked two cigarettes from his pocket. He stuck one behind his ear and the other in his mouth. 

Greyson leaned over from his spot on the couch and grabbed a gilded automatic lighter in the shape of a genie’s lamp. 

Joe met him in the middle and Grey pulled the switch; a little flame burst from the spout of the lamp, igniting the end of Joe’s cigarette. 

Abe crinkled his nose in distaste at the cloud of smoke that drifted his way. 

Philippe had wandered off in pursuit of a card game and a drink with Mr. Katz. 

Rhett dried his face and tried to force his hair back into a presentable shape with minimal success. He eventually gave up on the errant curl that refused to be tamed, allowing it to fall across his forehead. He checked his reflection one last time in the mirror as the sound of applause drifted through the walls. 

A swell of sultry jazz followed and Rhett’s stomach tightened; Link had already started his set. He made for the door, trying not to look like he was in a hurry, but judging from Joe’s wolf whistle, he wasn’t fooling anyone. He jogged down the hall to the stagehand entrance and crept out into the audience. 

Link was in full command of the stage. The band behind him faded into vague shapes in the shadow of his striking presence. The lights brought out the sheen of his dress that shifted across the planes of his body like water, his jewels gleaming like stars. Rhett found a free chair near the back of the crowd to watch from, and where his obvious rapture wouldn’t be noticed. Though, he imagined that most of the people in the room were in a similar state. 

His voice ringing out above the music, Link shimmied and swayed his thin skirts, the shape of his legs barely visible through the fabric. Rhett followed them up his rolling hips; the way the fabric was gathered gave the illusion of volume on his otherwise skinny frame. The bodice hugged his ribcage tightly and gave way to a translucent black blouse that covered his flat chest. Every time he raised his arms, his nipples appeared above the line of his bodice, leaving no doubt as to his masculinity. 

Rhett twisted the tablecloth in his fists. He could feel himself sweating again, and he wished he’d thought to bring a change of clothes. He’d never before had a sexual thought about a man and here he was practically falling over himself with desire for this one. It made no logical sense and he decided there was no use trying to figure it out, to put a label on himself. He liked Link. He liked him a lot. If that made him a pansy, then so be it. 

The hallway that led to Link’s dressing room was packed with bodies. Rhett was crushed from all sides, his height making it so he nearly brushed the ceiling. He was on the verge of panic when a slender hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. He followed the hand up to the arm of a tall blonde woman. With a start, he realized she was the same one who had stolen Link away on the night they met. 

“C’mon, sugar,” she chirped in a Brooklyn accent. “Charlie’s waiting for you.” 

She plowed her way through the crowd in a way only a New Yorker could manage ,and Rhett stumbled along after her. Behind him, he felt Joseph grab him by a suspender strap to use him like a tugboat. Rhett didn’t know if the other boys were coming, but he knew Joseph was never one to miss a party. 

Finally, the sea parted and admitted them through the doorway to Link’s dressing room. 

A few lamps were lit, bathing the whole room in a warm reddish glow. This room was far nicer than Rhett’s, and he guessed that had something to do with Link’s more permanent employment. The walls were draped in dark silks to cover up the old, cracked paint beneath. The center of the room was occupied by a large circular couch, upholstered in red velvet and draped in young socialites with champagne glasses. 

The room was choked with flowers and their sweet perfume filled the air, mingling with the unmistakable scent of marijuana. Rhett had seen it several times since his arrival in the city, but had never partaken. He tracked the pungent clouds to a corner where a small giggling group of people were passing a reefer cigarette between them. A brassy ragtime tune was blaring from a phonograph. 

The popping of a cork made Rhett flinch. He whipped around and there was Link, holding out a fresh champagne bottle. A group of men and women around him all held out their flutes under the spewing bubbles. 

Link was smiling broadly when he looked up and met Rhett’s stare. His grin morphed into a flirtatious smirk that lit a fire under Rhett’s skin. Link moved past his admirers and headed in Rhett’s direction. Before he could make it across the room, however, he was stopped by a bulky body that totally eclipsed Link from Rhett’s view.

Rhett watched anxiously as they had a hushed exchange. Link tried to move around him but the man caught his arm. In the other hand he held a bundle of roses. Their words were still inaudible but Rhett could read the desperation in the stranger’s eyes, and the wariness in Link’s. A startlingly fierce feeling of protectiveness welled up inside Rhett and he found himself crossing the room in two long strides. 

“Excuse me,” Rhett interjected, stepping between the two of them. “Is there some kind of problem here?”

The man looked up at him; Rhett towered above him a good five inches. He had never thrown a proper punch in his life, but he’d learned how to glare from his father. It appeared to work. The man swallowed, visibly cowed. 

“What’s it to you, anyway?” the man asked, though he was already taking a step back. 

“I’m...I’m Miss Charlie’s new bodyguard,” he lied. “I must ask you to please keep your distance, sir.”

The man stared impotently back at him, his hands twisting the roses into mangled bits. He let them drop on the floor and fought his way through the crowd and out of the room. 

Rhett let out his breath, fingers tingling with exhilaration. He couldn’t believe how well that had worked. He was proud of himself for all of a second before he realized that his interjection may have not been welcome. Would Link be offended? Buzzing with nerves, he turned around to find Link staring up at him with something like wonder in his eyes. Rhett tried a cautious smile, his face burning. 

“Bodyguard, huh?” Link asked with a tilt of his brows. 

Rhett fidgeted with the hairs at the nape of his neck, finding them damp. “Yeah, I’m… I’m sorry about that. If it was...too forward of me.” 

Link’s mouth tipped into an endearingly lopsided grin, and he ducked his head, thick eyelashes touching his cheeks. 

Rhett’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird; his hands ached to touch. 

“No, no, it was brave of you.” Link lifted his gaze and leaned forward conspiratorially. “I find that very attractive.” 

Rhett’s brain stuttered to an absolute halt. He blinked, licked his lips, and struggled to remember any of the words he should know. He’d never been so out of his depth. From this distance, he could smell Link’s floral perfume, mingling with the earthy musk beneath.

“Oh.” It was the only syllable he could form. 

Link giggled at him in a way that wasn’t teasing, but delighted, as if Rhett had said something terribly witty. Then he grabbed Rhett’s hand and led him over to the round couch. With a guiding gesture, he bade Rhett to sit in the only available space, while he went to retrieve him a glass of champagne. 

Rhett took it graciously, not mentioning he’d never had it before. It would only make him seem more of a dumb farm boy. 

The bubbles were lovely, fizzing and popping on his tongue. He hummed appreciatively as he swallowed, the alcohol suffusing warmth into his stomach. 

Link acquired a glass for himself and then, casually as you please, he perched on Rhett’s knee, and Rhett’s arm instinctively wrapped around him, embracing his tiny waist to keep him stable. Link propped an arm on Rhett’s shoulder and downed half his glass at once. 

Rhett’s eyes fixated on the long stretch of his throat, mere inches from his own face. He wanted to mark it with his lips and teeth, to taste it with his tongue. 

“You can, you know,” Link said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Rhett’s stomach jerked. He couldn’t mean… “Can? Can what?”

Link smirked and undid his choker, exposing his bare neck for Rhett. 

Rhett’s pupils dilated, his body flooding with arousal. He felt himself getting rapidly hard and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The heat and weight of Link settled on his lap was certainly not helping. It was only a matter of time before Link noticed. Was  Link was in a similar state? It was impossible to tell; his dress revealed nothing. 

His fingers gripped Link’s bodice tighter and he leaned in. 

Link shivered at the first touch of Rhett’s hot breath against his skin. He pressed eagerly into it until Rhett was forced to close the small gap and touch lips to his skin. They both let out small sounds as Rhett pressed a soft, open kiss on Link’s fluttering pulse. The din of the party happening around them faded into unimportance. If they wanted to watch, Rhett suddenly couldn’t care less. In fact, he found the idea surprisingly enticing. 

He trailed the tip of his tongue up toward Link’s ear, earning him a delicate gasp. He took the long, dangling earring between his teeth, tugging gently at the tear-shaped diamond pendant. 

Link hissed in a sharp breath and suddenly his hand was in Rhett’s hair, tugging at the dirty-blond curls. 

Fire licked down Rhett’s spine, igniting nerve-endings he never knew he had. He clutched harder to Link, latching onto his neck just below the curve of his jaw. The taste of him, the salt of his skin, it flooded Rhett’s mouth with saliva. He pulled at the flesh hungrily, rolling it between his teeth. 

Link arched in his grasp and pulled harder on Rhett’s hair.

It should have hurt, but the pleasure Rhett felt overwhelmed every other sensation, broke it all down into a keen, single-minded desperation. He licked away the taste of grease paint and the bitter perfume until he was left with pink, tender skin, primally satisfied that he’d left a mark.

Link pulled back far enough to look at him, and there was no mistaking the lust burning in his luminous eyes. Rhett’s gaze fell to Link’s mouth, painted purple and soft like ripe plums. He felt himself inclining his head, pulled in by Link’s gravity. Link closed his eyes, lips parted expectantly. 

Before Rhett could span the space between them, he was jarred by a familiar voice shouting his name. He whipped his head around and saw Philippe fighting his way over, against the current of bodies. Rhett had never been so annoyed to see his grinning face. 

Link’s weight suddenly left his lap, and he turned to see him standing, straightening his dress. “Looks like you’re needed elsewhere,” he said, and bent to press a kiss to Rhett’s cheek. 

Just like that, he was gone and Philippe was standing over him eagerly, nearly bouncing with excitement. It had to be something important for Phil not to tease him for necking in public.

“We got ourselves another gig!” Philippe announced. 

Rhett’s face dropped. “Is that all? Couldn’t you have just told me that later?”

“Of course that’s not all!” Philippe gesticulated excessively while drunk, and this time was no exception. He sloshed the mint julep he was holding down the back of a girl’s dress and she squealed, leaping to her feet. 

Though very drunk, her face was murderous as she shoved Philippe in the chest. Her friend noticed and took the girl by the arm, leading her towards the door.

“You stupid ass!” The drunk woman shouted over her shoulder. 

Her friend met Philippe’s gaze with a long-suffering shake of her head, and dragged her off toward the powder room. 

Philippe shrugged, nonplussed, and sat down in the spot the girl had vacated. 

“Anyhow,” he continued from where he left off before Rhett could get a word in, “Mr. Katz is friends with some big-time folks and one’a them is having a party at his fancy-shmancy penthouse in Manhattan.” 

“Okay….”

“And!” Phil polished off the rest of his drink, pausing for dramatic effect. “He’s willing to pay us three hundred clams,  _ each _ ! For playing his shindig!” 

That got Rhett’s attention. He sat up straight and stared into Philippe’s glassy eyes. 

“You’re being serious?” Elation bubbled up inside him and he laughed out loud. 

Phil laughed with him, shaking Rhett by the shoulder. 

“When? Soon?” Rhett asked. 

“One...no, two Saturdays from now,” Philippe tallied up the days on his fingers and showed them to Rhett. “October third!” he announced, holding up four fingers. 

Rhett smirked. “I’ll ask you again when you’re less fried.”

Philippe looked as if he wanted to object, but gave up almost immediately. He nodded, chagrined _. _

“There you are!” Greyson exclaimed from the door, striding quickly over. “We should go,” he said, looking uncharacteristically flustered. “Abraham just upchucked on some man’s shoes and now he’s weeping in our dressing room.” 

Philippe burst into laughter, and Rhett struggled not to join him. Grey fidgeted, not amused and clearly uncomfortable in a room with so many others. Rhett took pity on him and stood, hauling up a still giggling Philippe from the couch. Rhett scanned the room for Link, planning to tell him goodnight, but he was nowhere to be found. 

Reluctantly, Rhett followed his friends out of the room and away from the dizzy dream he’d been living in. It all seemed so distant now, the warmth of Link in his lap. The only proof he carried with him was the purple kiss mark on his cheek. He never wanted to wash it off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank you guys for the positive response this fic has gotten! It really inspires me to keep going <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long but here it is, and it's gettin frisky ;)

_ September 29th,1925 _

_ New York, New York _

  
  


After paying his share of the rent, Rhett bought some new strings for his banjo and some new clothes. Wearing old, threadbare suits in an underground bar was one thing, but it was quite another to show up underdressed to a penthouse party. A new hat also wouldn’t go amiss.

He took a taxi to an upscale haberdashery he’d passed by before but never dared enter. Rhett felt shabby and unimportant looking at his reflection in the plate glass display windows as he removed his cap and smoothed down the dark blond waves of his hair. He tucked the hat under his arm and swung open the door, head held high as if he weren’t completely out of his depth.

 

After all was said and done, he was fitted for two new suits — which he’d return for in a week. One trim-fit—sleek for evening wear — and the second more casual in the new, looser Oxford cut. He bought a new silk tie with a pastel paisley pattern, along with stiff white cuffs and collars. The slim, silver and emerald tie pin was a bit of an extravagant purchase, but it so perfectly matched the cufflinks that Philippe had given him for his birthday that he couldn’t resist. 

With his money now dwindling, he decided to have his bowler refelted in lieu of buying a brand new one. He recalled Abraham saying his uncle was a talented milliner, and fair in his business. He did, however, have enough cash left over for a couple drinks at the Backroom. 

The prospect of possibly seeing Link again filled him with nervous energy, which he tried to walk off on his way home. By the time he reached his block, it had started to drizzle outside, and he jogged the last stretch to his apartment building. Two flights of creaking stairs led the way to their rooms on the third floor. At this time of day, there was always the rich scent of italian food lingering in the hallway, thanks to their next door neighbors from Sicily.

He could hear music before he crossed the threshold and knew that Greyson was in for one of his all day practice sessions. Rhett nearly collided with Philippe when he opened the door, and the smaller man looked up at him from under his new straw boater. His expression bled exasperation, but Rhett could tell it wasn’t directed at him. 

“He’s been at it for five hours now,” Phil groused, loud enough to be heard over the music. “The neighbors keep pounding on the wall, and I’m about sick of it.”

“Can you blame them?” Rhett hollered back. 

Philippe shrugged and ducked under the arm that Rhett had braced against the wall. He turned back, adjusting his immaculate bowtie. “Catch you later, Sport,” he said through a beaming grin. “ _ I’ve _ got a date.” 

“Who with?” Rhett started to ask, but Phil was already hurrying away. It didn’t matter, really; Philippe had a different date every weekend. 

Inside, Rhett followed a trail of crumpled sheet music to find Greyson straddling the window frame that led to the fire escape. The rain gave a moody ambience to his silhouette, and that of his wailing saxophone. He never seemed to notice Rhett’s entrance, his eyes screwed shut in concentration. 

Grey was a truly gifted musician, but he was a perfectionist. He put monumental pressure on himself to excel, to push his limits. He went through bouts of frantic composing, abandoning other needs and obligations in an almost slave-like dedication to his music. There was no sense in trying to make him stop; he was unwilling to listen. He’d exhaust himself eventually. It did worry Rhett at first, but over time, he learned to accept his friend’s eccentricities and work around them. 

Rhett washed quickly in their shared bathroom; his tall frame barely fitting inside the old clawfoot tub. Once dressed, and with a new tie around his neck, Rhett plucked his cap from the coat rack and left, gratefully closing the door on Greyson’s cacophony. 

 

The Back Room was not yet at capacity for the evening. Rhett easily made his way to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. He cast his gaze around the room, seeking out a familiar face. Link was nowhere to be found, but his eye caught the profile of a blonde woman seated at a table close to the stage, where a couple of girls were doing a sister act in flashy, beaded dresses. 

She was bowed over a journal of some sort, her blackened fingers clutching a piece of conté. Rhett made his way over with his drink, and sat at the table just behind her, curious but unwilling to interrupt. The closer he got, he came to realize that she was the same woman whose name he still hadn’t learned, the one who seemed to be friends with Link. As though she could feel his gaze, she tensed and whipped her head around to face him. The annoyance creasing her brows evaporated when she laid eyes on Rhett and she smiled. 

“My stars!” she exclaimed, standing  and gathering her materials,depositing them on the opposite side of Rhett’s table. “Mind if I join?” she asked, already sitting down. 

Rhett grinned at her audacity. “Be my guest.” 

“I’ve been just dying to know you,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows. Her heavy beaded necklace swung from her slender neck, the matching chunky bracelets clattering against the table. 

Rhett’s eyebrows ticked up in surprise. “Me? Whyever for?”

“Mysterious stranger rolls in and charms the pants off my bosom buddy,” she said with a mischievous grin, “You must be the cat’s pajamas.”

Rhett blushed, his heart tripping along a little faster. “I’m sure I’m not as interesting as all that.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said with a wink and stuck out her clean hand for a shake. “I’m Ermengarde, but everyone who’s anyone calls me Erma.” 

Rhett clasped her hand, finding it slim but surprisingly rough. “It’s a pleasure, miss. I’m Rhett.”

He must have given something away in his expression because she wiggled her fingers and said, “Sorry, artist hands.” 

For the first time since she sat down, Rhett looked at the journal she’d been working in. Female figures danced across the page, vague but dynamic in their movement. The shapes of the women exactly matched the dancers on stage, down to the swishing motions of their dresses. Rhett had never seen such expressive artwork up close; he felt awed and humbled. 

“Your work is incredible,” he blurted.

She let out a lilting laugh. “Stop, you’ll make me blush!” she warned, but her berry-colored lips were pulling into a grin that betrayed her happiness. 

She was a lovely girl, Rhett thought. Unconventionally pretty at her statuesque height and with her pointed, aquiline nose. In another reality, Rhett may have been interested in pursuing her, but as it was, he had eyes for someone else. He could never have enough friends however, and he hoped to make one of her. 

“Are you an artist by trade?” Rhett asked. 

“Golly, no,” she replied, “What a fantasy! I’m a performer. I taught Charlie all he knows.”

“Really? How did you meet?”

“I met him in the summer of ‘21, I believe. Yes, that sounds about right. He was in a crummy little play I saw. It was so sad because it was obvious he was talented, but he was a nobody in a sea of nobodies. I didn’t think much more about it until we wound up at the same bar a few hours later.”

Rhett could hardly imagine such an unglamorous version of Link. The thought of him in a collared shirt, trousers or maybe even knickerbockers, was almost absurd. 

 

“He was drinking alone and I felt so bad, I had to talk to him,” Erma continued, running her necklace absently through her fingers.

“ So, I sat down beside him and introduced myself. We really hit it off, and I couldn’t get enough of that cute, southern accent, so we ended up talking for hours. He’s got a lot of lofty dreams, that boy.”

“How in the world did he go from acting to impersonating a woman?” Rhett wondered aloud. 

“Well, that was a little idea I cooked up by accident.,” Erma said with a grin. “See, we became fast friends and we met up at that same bar a lot after his shows. He wasn’t making much money, and he was living in an old tenement building with rats as big as pussycats. So, I invited him to my place to stay the night.” 

She painted such a bleak picture of Link’s life that it struck a chord in Rhett. Not so long ago, he was in the exact same boat. He remembered all too clearly the hunger pangs and flea bites of poverty, one step away from being on the street in the unforgiving New York winter.

“We ended up getting real drunk that night, and somehow I arrived at the idea to dress him up in my clothes, and once we’d gone that far, I figured I might as well do his makeup too.” 

Erma twirled a strand of hair around her finger, smiling wistfully at the memory.

“And wouldn’t you know it, he was damn pretty! Almost made me jealous ‘cause he looked better in my dress than I did.” 

Rhett couldn’t help but laugh. “So, it occurred to you that he might be able to fool some people and make money doing it?” 

She touched a finger to her nose. “Exactly. I taught him how to walk in heels and to move like a woman. He took to it naturally, you see. He’s a very good actor. It took a while to convince him to try it out in public, but once he did, he could see I was right. There’s a good deal of money in drag shows nowadays, and Charlie has the best one in town. So, he got his first gig, and the rest is history.” 

Rhett shook his head in amazement. “I think you might actually be a genius, Erma.”

“It’s been said.” She lifted a shoulder in nonchalance, but there was a pleased twinkle in her dark brown eyes. 

By now, more people had begun flooding in and filling up the tables around them, but still no sign of Link. 

“I suppose you’re looking for Charlie, right?” Erma said. “I should have mentioned before, but he’s got the night off. If he knows what’s good for him, he’s at home asleep right now.”

Though Rhett was disappointed, he didn’t regret going out. “That’s alright. I found some good company anyhow.”  He smiled at her and she smiled back. 

  
  
  


_ Saturday,October 3 _ _ rd _ _ , 1925 _

_ New York, New York _

A telegram had been delivered on Friday, with details pertaining to their upcoming event, including its Times Square address. They were to arrive at four o'clock and rehearse if they wished. The party itself would begin at seven o'clock sharp, and formal dress would be required.

Drawing his assumptions from the telegram, Rhett figured the place would be ritzy, but nothing could prepare him for the opulence that greeted them. An impeccably dressed butler answered the door, giving them a little half-bow as he stepped aside for them to enter. Rhett led the group into the marble floored foyer. A delicate chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminated with small electric lights that threw intricate shadows onto the panelled walls.

The hall opened up to a huge vacant space with high, vaulted ceilings. Rhett had never been inside such a decadent ballroom before; the walls were gilded around panels of painted clouds and beautiful angels, to match the rococo theme. A giant chandelier dominated the room—its arms molded into the shapes of vines and leaves—which hung heavy with hundreds of teardrop crystals. Its golden glow transformed the white marble floor into a highly polished mirror; a perfect reflection of the chandelier gleamed ethereally under Rhett’s feet.

He drank in his surroundings with wide eyes, his lips parted in awe. He felt transported in time, like he was suddenly a child again, struck with wonder before the stage of the opera house. His fingers tingled with excitement as he imagined the sound of his music echoing off the walls of this enormous space. He met the exuberant faces of his bandmates and could tell they were thinking the same. 

 

_ Saturday, October 3rd, 1925 _

_ 7:30 pm _

 

The host, Mr. Montana, was an enigmatic man in his late forties. His sleek, blond hair was touched with grey at the temples; there were faded freckles on his cheeks that kept his face looking youthful, and his sea green eyes were crinkled at the corners in a permanent smile. Link had met him a handful of times before, usually at his own performances. 

He greeted Link warmly, clasping his hands between his own rough palms. Link appreciated that; a rich man with hard-working hands meant he’d earned his own way. Most folks from old money looked down on that sort, as if being born into obscene wealth was something to be proud of. On the whole, Link found those types to be painfully dull and self-absorbed. 

“Welcome to my humble home,” Mr. Montana said, kissing Link’s hand and then Erma’s. 

Montana was not his real name. He spoke with a gravelly twang that betrayed his western upbringing. He’d come from a long line of cowboys and ranchers, and he wore his heritage like a badge of honor; sometimes still wearing spurs on his boots. Link had heard people ask him how it was that he made his fortune, but Montana gave a different answer every time. 

“Humble isn’t exactly the word I would choose, but thank you all the same,” Link joked. 

Mr. Montana gave a hearty laugh as he ushered them inside, Link’s arm entwined with Erma’s as their heels clicked across the foyer. Erma’s glossy hair hung in tight curls, accentuated by her feathered headband. She wore a loose, green dress that shimmered with every step, and a necklace of enormous pearls that hung from her swan-like neck. 

Link was done up in full Miss Charlie style, this time in a heavily beaded black dress that weighed at least twenty pounds. His dark hair laid flat under a cloche of hanging crystals that matched the collection of bracelets gathered around his slender wrists. Just as Link expected, he and Erma immediately drew the eyes of everyone in the room. They were soon surrounded by a group of acquaintances and admirers putting flutes of champagne into their bejeweled hands.

In his heels, Link was taller than nearly everyone around him, which gave him a perfect view of the band playing at the head of the ballroom. His heart leapt at the sight of familiar blond curls, falling out of their carefully molded shape. Link’s eyes roved over Rhett’s body, taking in the finely tailored tuxedo that hugged his body in all the right places. He didn’t realize he’d been staring until Erma gave him a little pinch under the arm. Blushing, Link turned away from Rhett and attempted to engage in conversation; but no one could hold his concentration for long. 

 

The Smoking Banjos launched into their third song of the night just as Rhett caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd. Link was breathtaking, shimmering under the light of the chandelier. He couldn’t make out what was being said over the music, but occasionally he’d toss his head back and laugh, the pale length of his throat tantalizing Rhett beneath a ring of diamonds.

As usual, he was accompanied by an entourage of adoring fans, but every now and then, Link would sneak a look at Rhett, and it was all-consuming, one that raked up and down the length of his body, making him shiver. He watched as a handsome man with a thin mustache offered his arm to Link, who accepted and let the man lead him out onto the dance floor. Jealousy simmered in Rhett’s gut, but he tried not to let it get to him. A knockout like Link was bound to have his dance card filled up. 

Link anticipated every move of his partner, allowing himself to be led into a vigorous charleston. His enjoyment was clear in his radiant smile and the effortless flicks and kicks of his arms and long, elegant legs. The fringe of black beads at the hem of his dress lashed around his knees to the rhythm of Rhett’s frantic picking, and the raspy twang of his voice. Soon, other bodies crowded onto the floor, pushing and rolling with one another like waves, obscuring Link from his sight except for the intermittent gleam of his headpiece. 

The rest of the performance flew by in a blur of adrenaline. Rhett was sweltering in his tuxedo by the time they had finished, and he loosened the black bowtie around his neck to let some of the heat escape. Raucous applause rang in his ears as he led the band offstage and made way for the pianist who was up next. 

Rhett nodded to her as she passed by, on her way to the glossy baby grand. He admired the confidence with which she wore her white suit; it contrasted beautifully with her ebony skin and shone like a beacon against the black lacquer of the piano. She swept her tails over the bench and sat, her nimble fingers dancing in an impressive flourish across the keys. 

Her petite frame concealed a surprising powerhouse of talent, and Rhett used the distraction she caused to slip away and find one of the many butlers ambulating about the ballroom. Parched from singing and sweating, he threw back his first drink without tasting it, and immediately took another, retreating with it to the outskirts of the floor. He was happy to rest against a pillar and catch his breath while the other boys split off to get their kicks elsewhere. 

After her first peppy jazz number, the pianist switched to a slow waltz that drew all of the lovebirds onto the floor. Rhett watched the people pair off and begin to sway together, and was struck with a pang of loneliness. He cast his gaze around for Link, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, Rhett figured. He didn’t see himself working up the nerve to ask Link to dance anyway. 

A suave, blond man in an expensive suit made eye contact with Rhett and broke off from the gaggle of friends surrounding him. He strolled over to Rhett and put out one broad hand for a shake. Rhett instantly obliged, impressed by the firmness of the man’s grip. 

“Mr. Rhett McLaughlin, I presume?” he asked. 

“The one and only,” Rhett replied with a smile. 

“My friends call me Mr. Montana,” the man said, appraising Rhett with kind eyes. “I’m your host this evening.”

Rhett blinked in surprise, quickly straightening his posture. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. You have a beautiful home.”

Mr. Montana waved the statement away with a flippant hand. “Oh, this is just where I stay when I’m in the city. My main residence is in the Hamptons. That is, if you don’t count my ranch back west.”

Rhett whistled. The sheer amount of money this man must have possessed boggled his mind. He never expected a millionaire to be so personable. 

“I’m a country boy myself,” Rhett said, “if you couldn’t tell by my accent.”

“Indeed, that’s what I noticed about you first. You’ve got a real down-home sound in your music, son. When I heard you boys perform at the Back Room, I just knew you would be perfect for my little get together.”

_ Little get together.  _ Rhett grinned, shaking his head. “I’m deeply flattered, sir. I hope we met your expectations.”

“I’ll say!” Mr. Montana laughed, clapping Rhett on the shoulder. 

“You’ve made quite the impression on some of my very important friends over there.” He gestured over his shoulder to the men he’d been conversing with. “I think you’ll be getting some more invitations very soon.”

Rhett’s head was buzzing with exhilaration and alcohol. “I’m sure we’ll be happy to entertain any friend of yours.”

“Good man!” Mr. Montana smiled. “I must jump back into the fray, now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, dear fellow.”With that, he was gone, whisked off into the crowd and gathered up in the waiting arms of a pretty brunette. 

Rhett felt a draft on his left side and turned to notice a pair of opened french doors. The night sky was visible through the glass, and he could make out the railing of what appeared to be a vacant balcony. Fresh air seemed like a welcome respite from the warmth of the party. He picked up another flute of champagne from a butler’s tray on his way to the doors, and stepped out into the cool evening.

The balcony, he soon discovered, was less empty than he’d initially thought. A lone figure stood at the railing, female by the silhouette of her dress. Between she and Rhett stood a few round tables with chairs and several potted trees and flowering plants. The foliage gave off a sweet perfume, putting Rhett in mind of his mother’s garden back in Georgia. Though he wanted to stay and enjoy the quiet, he didn’t want to impose on someone who clearly wanted to be alone. 

Rhett was just turning around to leave when his foot caught the leg of a chair, making it screech across the mosaic tile. He froze and looked back over his shoulder. The figure by the railing had turned, and Rhett’s heart leapt.

“Link,” he breathed, and then clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t know exactly what the policy was for using his real name whilst Link was dressed as Miss Charlie. However, Link didn’t appear to mind. 

His face broke into a wide smile, and he held a hand out toward Rhett. 

Rhett stumbled forward, kicked free of the chair, and moved toward Link as if being drawn by an invisible thread. His pulse quickened. Link looked even lovelier up close. The pale points of his collar bones peeked out beneath the narrow straps of his dress, blue eyes nearly glowing beneath the black curtain of his bangs. 

“You look—”

“Rhett, you w—”

They spoke together and then stopped, each waiting for the other to continue. Link lifted his brows, inclining his head toward Rhett, and he took that as his cue to speak.

“You look beautiful, Link.” The words carried with them a blush that crept into the apples of Rhett’s cheeks.

There was an unguarded flash of emotion in Link’s eyes before he turned them to the floor. A slow smile tugged at his lips, and when he looked up, he’d gathered his composure — though there was a good deal more color to his cheeks. 

“This old thing?” he joked, lifting a string of beads at his hip and letting them drop. “You were really somethin’.” The humor had fled his expression; he was looking at Rhett earnestly.

Rhett’s stomach fizzled with electricity. “You think so?” He leaned one arm on the railing, affecting a casual attitude he didn’t feel. 

As if to one-up him, Link leaned both elbows on the rail and leaned forward, giving Rhett a spectacular view of his rear end. He turned his face toward Rhett, looking up at him through dark lashes, over the curve of a pale shoulder. 

“What do you think about up there?” Link asked. 

Rhett blinked. “While I’m playing, you mean?” 

“Yeah. You look so...passionate.”

Flustered, Rhett turned his gaze to the sprawling cityscape beneath them. He gave the question serious thought before he answered.

“I don’t think about anything,” Rhett said. “It’s kind of like dreaming, I suppose. The music just moves through me and makes everything else disappear.”

Link nodded, white teeth pulling at the red blossom of his lower lip. He moved closer and Rhett reacted, unthinkingly. Before he knew it, Link was in his arms, pressed snugly up against his front. Rhett opened his mouth and Link dove in, hands around Rhett’s neck to pull him down. Rhett’s hands stole to Link’s tiny waist, fingers spanning the small of his back when he tugged him closer.

The touch of Link’s mouth was searing, seeming to open up Rhett’s veins and fill them with blinding hot light. Sparks were firing off at every point that their bodies came together and Rhett craved more. Closer. Faster. His feet carried him forward and Link moved back, just like he’d followed his partner’s steps on the dance floor. Link’s back hit the wall, and he gasped into Rhett’s mouth—who took the opportunity to invade Link’s with his tongue. 

Rhett throbbed in his close-fitting pants as Link sucked him in deeper, letting out the most delicious little moans he’d ever heard. He palmed over Link’s front, feeling the flatness of his chest beneath his dress, the beads whispering with every movement. Link’s hands were strong and firm on his back, roaming and squeezing every part of Rhett he could reach. 

Parting the fringe concealing Link’s thighs, Rhett slipped his fingers beneath, seeking out the hardness hidden under Link’s lace panties. 

Link bucked into his hand, filling Rhett’s palm with a generous bulge. There was no denying Link’s masculinity while cupping the firm heat of his arousal, and it only served to drive Rhett wilder. He teased Link’s shaft through the panties and felt him shiver, leaking wetness onto Rhett’s fingers.

Link tore his mouth away to breathe and got his hands on Rhett’s fly. He clumsily undid the buttons, a vague tremor running through him; or perhaps it was Rhett. He could barely think with Link’s long fingers snaking into his pants and grasping his cock through his underwear. 

Rhett swore and thrusted against him a few times before he got frustrated. He stopped touching Link long enough to get his pants thoroughly undone. 

They met eyes long enough to reach a silent agreement; Link leapt up and Rhett caught hold of his waist, bracing him against the wall with his hips. They worked together to ruck Link’s dress up enough to free his erection. Rhett moaned aloud at the sight of the glossy, pink head trapped and drooling against the black lace of his panties.

Link pulled him back into a kiss and locked his legs around Rhett, rolling their cocks together in the humid space between their bodies. Bearing down hard, Rhett started working his hips in long strokes, shuddering as Link pulsed against him. Their kisses got messy, Rhett’s breathy groans escaping between wet swipes of tongue. This was all happening so quickly; there was no way he could last. 

He needn’t have worried though. Less than a minute later, Link tensed, his thighs quivering around him. He hissed in a sharp breath and arched his back against the wall, grinding his cock against Rhett as he started to come. Rhett’s pace began to falter, the wet heat of Link’s release slicking the movement between them.

Bracing his arms on the wall, Rhett buried his face in Link’s hair as his own orgasm swelled up and crashed into him like a wave. He moaned, twitching with every gush of come that shot out of him, sticking Link’s beads together and pooling in the gap of Rhett’s fly. He thrusted through the last throbs of his release, and then went limp —except for the parts of him keeping Link off the ground. 

Inside, the pianist was playing  _ Claire de Lune _ . They could barely hear the melody over the ragged sound of their panting as they slowly came back to themselves. Rhett became aware of Link’s legs trembling where they were spread around him, and he helped carefully lower him to the ground. Link’s heels touched the tile and he wobbled, catching himself on Rhett’s strong arms. 

The pleasure radiating through Rhett’s body was warring with sudden bashfulness. He’d never been in this situation before, and was unsure how to proceed. His previous sexual encounters were just rolls in the hay, clumsy and quick, and never with anyone who made him feel the way Link did. Luckily, Link met his eyes and broke into a slow, easy smile. Rhett gratefully smiled back and soon they were laughing. Link’s high, breathy giggles were intoxicating and Rhett wanted nothing more than to hear it all the time. 

When they caught their breath, Rhett fished a handkerchief from his breast pocket and did his best to clean them both up. Rhett’s trousers would need to be cleaned professionally; if he ever managed to work up the nerve. Most of the mess on Link’s beads came off easily enough and no one need know about the sticky secret underneath.The thought of Link walking around with Rhett’s come in his underwear made him weak in the knees.

They walked back into the party separately. Rhett spotted Greyson dancing cheek to cheek with none other than Erma, who looked like the cat who’d got the cream. She felt Rhett’s gaze and opened her eyes, giving him a lascivious wag of her brows. He winked back and skirted around them, keeping close to the wall as he made his way to the foyer. 

A burst of laughter led him to an open doorway, where he found the rest of his band gathered around a large poker table with a handful of other men. The cigar smoke hung heavy in the air and stung Rhett’s eyes. He ducked back out and headed for the front door, which was perpetually swinging open and closed around floods of chattering, intoxicated people. Rhett darted out when he saw his chance; and when the crowd cleared, he found Link in the hallway, leaning on the wall beside the elevator. 

He couldn’t help the smile that rounded his cheeks at the sight of Link, still bright-eyed and flushed. Link pushed off the wall and sauntered toward him. He reached up and straightened Rhett’s bowtie, leaning in close as he did so. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, breath soft on Rhett’s cheek. 

Rhett suppressed a shiver. “Where?” he asked. 

Link graced him with flirty grin as he pulled away, taking Rhett’s hand along with him. 

“Anywhere.” 

The elevator doors opened, admitting a few more guests into the hall. Rhett and Link slipped inside after them where they were greeted by a weary attendant, decked out in a stuffy red uniform. 

“Going down?” he asked. 

“I’ll say,” Link replied, smiling, and laced his fingers through Rhett’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me start by saying that none of this would have been possible without the unending support of remembertherandler. Thank you for listening to my ravings and encouraging me to give life to a story that would have otherwise stayed a passing fancy. I am forever grateful <3  
> This is an enormous undertaking, one that I never thought I'd be capable of. I sincerely hope you enjoy and stick around for the journey.


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